‘Yet—­but George’s hands were not peculiar in any way.’  Bridget’s voice, as she spoke, seemed to herself to come from far away; as though it were that of another person speaking under compulsion.

’I’m sorry—­I’m sorry!’—­the Sister repeated.  ’It’s so sad for him to be dying here—­all alone—­nobody knowing even who he is—­when one thinks how somebody must be grieving and longing for him.’

‘Have you no other enquiries?’ said Bridget, abruptly, turning to pick up some gloves she had laid down.

’Oh yes—­we have had other visitors—­and I believe there is a gentleman coming to-morrow.  But nothing that sounded so promising as your visit.  You won’t come again?’

‘It would be no use,’ said the even, determined voice.  ’I will write to Dr. Howson from London.  And I do hope’—­for the first time, the kindly nurse perceived some agitation in this impressive stranger—­’I do hope that nobody will write to my sister—­to Mrs. Sarratt.  She is very delicate.  Excitement and disappointment might just kill her.  That’s why I came.’

’And that of course is why Dr. Howson wrote to you first.  Oh I am sure he will take every care.  He’ll be very, very sorry!  You’ll write to him?  And of course so shall I.’

The news that the lady from England had failed to identify the nameless patient to whom doctor and nurses had been for weeks giving their most devoted care spread rapidly, and Bridget before she left the hospital had to run the gauntlet of a good many enquiries, at the hands of the various hospital chiefs.  She produced on all those who questioned her the impression of an unattractive, hard, intelligent woman whose judgment could probably be trusted.

‘Glad she isn’t my sister-in-law!’ thought Vincent as he turned back from handing her into the motor which was to take her to the port.  But he did not doubt her verdict, and was only sorry for ‘old Howson,’ who had been so sure that something would come of her visit.

The motor took Bridget rapidly back to D——­, where she would be in good time for an afternoon boat.  She got some food, automatically, at a hotel near the quay, and automatically made her way to the boat when the time came.  A dull sense of something irrevocable,—­something horrible,—­overshadowed her.  But the ‘will to conquer’ in her was as iron; and, as in the Prussian conscience, left no room for pity or remorse.

CHAPTER XIII

A psychologist would have found much to interest him in Bridget Cookson’s mental state during the days which followed on her journey to France.  The immediate result of that journey was an acute sharpening of intelligence, accompanied by a steady, automatic repression of all those elements of character or mind which might have interfered with its free working.  Bridget understood perfectly that she had committed a crime, and at first she had not been able to protect herself against the normal reaction of horror or fear.  But the reaction passed very quickly.  Conscience gave up the ghost.  Selfish will, and keen wits held the field; and Bridget ceased to be more than occasionally uncomfortable, though a certain amount of anxiety was of course inevitable.