"My dear boy, I am more than sorry. A case of sickness, and I used the motor to take it to the Cottage Hospital——"
Denzil's eyes expressed horror—almost dismay.
"My dear Aunt Bee—was it infectious?"
"Infectious? Oh, no, it was an accident. Such a curious, mysterious thing—such a wonderful, simply wonderful girl—I must tell you all about it! I found her lying among some hay in a canal barge. Wait a few minutes—I'll not keep you," and she went flying upstairs like a young woman, calling her maid as she ran.
"You have quite stimulated my curiosity," said Denzil later, as he helped her to soup. "A wonderful girl in a canal barge? Tell me all about it."
"Smith is the name—not very romantic," said Miss Rawson between her spoonfuls. "The brother rushed up for Dr. Causton, just as I was in the surgery talking to him about old Lambert. He—the brother—was a dirty young ruffian, but seemed in great distress, and said his sister had fallen from a window while cleaning it, and that she had injured herself, he feared, internally. They had, apparently, no idea that the injury was so serious, and he thought if he took her out into the country and the fresh air, and she rested, it would get well. She had a horror, it seems, of going to a hospital; that would have meant leaving her alone in London, as he had to go with the barge. So I went on board with the doctor, and there she was lying among the hay in a high fever—104 point two, Dr. Causton says—and we saw she must be taken to the hospital, so off we rushed in the motor. Then, when Sister Agnes undressed her, she told me the girl was no common girl—her underclothes were beautiful, she was carefully nurtured. She keeps on talking of a convent school, and calling for the Reverend Mother. Sister Agnes and I believe that she has run away, and probably got hurt in escaping from a window. Don't you think that sounds probable?"
"Possible, certainly," said Denzil. "But what about the man?"
"Well, he looked a regular ruffian to me, but the doctor says some of that was put on. He says once, when he was off his guard, he spoke with a clear, educated accent."
"Why, you have got hold of a romance," said Denzil, with interest. "Shall I go down to the wharf and have a look at him?"
"Oh, you won't find him! They go on to Basingstoke at once. But on his return journey he will come to see if she is well enough to be moved. You ought to go and look at her, Denzil, she is most remarkable. She is not grown up yet, but she is going to be a lovely woman—such hair—a dark, rich chestnut, not a bit red, but like Romney's 'Lady Hamilton.' And dark blue eyes—what a novelist might call violet, I should think—and very remarkable, expressive features. When she is conscious and out of pain, she ought to be worth looking at."