Hampson had obtained permission from the dean to inspect the work of repair that was proceeding, knowing that his readers would be interested in the subject.
Until four, however, he was perfectly free, and he drove straight towards Whitechapel.
His cab drove slowly through the congested arteries of the City, where the black-coated business men scurried about like rats in the gloom. But in half an hour Hampson arrived at the door of the hospital, and was making inquiries if Nurse Lys was off duty or no, and that if she were would she see him.
He had not come at this time entirely on speculation. He knew that, as a general rule, Mary was free at this hour.
She proved to be so to-day, and in a moment or two came into the reception-room where he was waiting.
She was like a star in the gloom, he thought.
How beautiful her pure and noble face was, how gracious her walk and bearing! All that spiritual beauty which comes from a life lived with utter unselfishness for others, the holy tranquillity that goodness paints upon the face, the light God lends the eyes when His light burns within—all these, added to Mary's remarkable physical beauty, marked her out as rare among women.
The little journalist worshipped her. She seemed to him a being so wonderful that there was a sort of desecration even in touching her hand.
"Ah, my friend," she said to him, with a flashing smile of welcome, "I am glad to see you. To tell you the truth, I have a melancholy mood to-day, a thing so very rare with me that it makes me all the more glad to see a friend's face. How are you, and how is your work?"
"I am very well, Nurse Mary, thank you, but I am troubled in mind about Joseph. I cannot get an answer to any of my letters, though at first he wrote constantly. I even wrote to Mr. Lluellyn Lys, hoping to hear from him that all was well. But I have received no answer to that letter either. I came to ask you if you had any news."