"That's funny," he thought. "Something the matter with his wires, maybe."
He stood up, idly watching. After a few minutes the lights switched on again and the car began to move forward. Behind it appeared the approaching lights of a second machine.
"That first car doesn't want to be seen," thought Paul. At each end of the bridge was an arc lamp. As the first car passed under the light, he caught a glimpse of it—a grey touring car, evidently capable of speed.
Paul didn't think of this again until he was near the place where he had decided to pass the night. At the corner of the street ahead of him a grey car stopped and three men got out—his blonde companion of the train among them, conspicuous both on account of his height and his beard.
"That's the same car," thought Paul, watching it roll away; and frowning as he thought of his Russian acquaintance of the morning he uneasily added, "I wonder what they were doing on that bridge…."
CHAPTER XXXIII
The next morning Wally was a little better.
He was still unconscious, but thanks to the surgeon his breathing was less laboured and he was resting more quietly. Mary had stayed with Helen overnight, and more than once it had occurred to her that even as it requires darkness to bring out the beauty of the stars, so in the shadow of overhanging disaster, Helen's better qualities came into view and shone with unexpected radiance.
"I know…" thought Mary. "It's partly because she's sorry, and partly because she's busy, too. She's doing the most useful work she ever did in her life, and it's helping her as much as it's helping him—"
They had a day nurse, but Helen had insisted upon doing the night work herself. There were sedatives to be given, bandages to be kept moist. Mary wanted to stay up, too, but Helen didn't like that.