“Don't try!” advised the doctor, “just rest as long as you can. I think we can manage a pillow for you.” He disposed his bag and rug behind her so that she was propped up against the end of the carriage.
As she watched him fix the handbag, Cecily was suddenly reminded of her own bag with its precious contents. With a certain prevision of evil she clapped her free hand on her wrist. The bag was gone! She remembered that it had been in her way when she began to help with the invalid—then she could remember no more. Withdrawing her hand from the sick woman's grasp, she began to search feverishly among the newspapers and various odds and ends that were strewn all over the compartment. The doctor looked at her.
“You have lost something? Your bag? Oh, now where did I see it? Oh, I remember—you put it down here.” He produced it from the side of his patient, from between her and the wood of the compartment, and handed it to her.
Cecily almost snatched it from him. How had she come to let it fall, she asked herself passionately. But had she dropped it or had it been taken from her? She fumbled with the clasp with fingers that were numb with fear. Yes, yes! There it was, that mysterious packet, just as she had placed it, and with a sigh of relief she sat down again and leaned back.
There was little more to be done for the woman who was ill. She lay quietly in her seat until they ran into the London terminus. Then Cecily leaned forward.
“Will your friends meet you?” she asked gently. “Or can I help you?”
The sick woman did not open her eyes.
“I shall be met, thank you. Thank you all so much.”
Quite a crowd of porters, apparently beckoned by the guard, appeared at the door. The doctor smiled as he stood aside for Cecily.
“You have been a most capable assistant.”