"No, Annette, you do not care for him. It is remorse for your neglect of him that makes you nurse him with such devotion."
"I do not love him," said Annette. "But then, how could I? I hardly know him. But he meant to be kind to me. He was the only person who was kind. He tried to save me, though not in the right way. Poor Dick, he does not know much. But I must stay and nurse him till he is better. I can't desert him."
"My dear," said Mrs. Stoddart impatiently, "that is all very well, but you cannot remain here without a scandal. It is different for an old woman like myself. And though we have not yet got into touch with his family, we shall directly. If I can't get a clue otherwise, I shall apply to the police. You must think of your own character."
"I do not care about my character," said Annette in the same tone in which she might have said she did not care for black coffee.
"But I do," said Mrs. Stoddart to herself.
"And I have a little money," Annette continued,—"at least, not much money, only a few louis,—but I have these." And she drew out from her neck a row of pearls. They were not large pearls, but they were even and beautifully matched.
"They were mother's," she said. "They will be enough for the doctor and the nurse and the hotel bill, won't they?"
Mrs. Stoddart put down the bottle of lotion and took the pearls in her hand, and bent over them, trying to hide her amazement.
"They are very good," she said slowly,—"beautiful colour and shape." Then she raised her eyes, and they fell once more on the bottle.
"But what am I thinking of?" she said sharply. "There is the clue I need staring me in the face. How incredibly stupid I am! There is the Paris chemist's name on it, and the number of the prescription. I can wire to him for the address to which he sent the bottle."