The sound of the thin, strained voice sent a shiver down Juliet’s spine, for there was in it a note which even her unaccustomed ears recognised. She turned to depart, with the natural shrinking of the young and healthy, but her haste made her careless, and the remaining bunches of flowers tilted out of her basket and rolled along the polished floor. Those that had fallen the farthest were almost touching the screen, and as Juliet bent to pick them up the mumbled voice seemed suddenly to grow into distinctness.
It was a number that the voice was mumbling; number whispered over and over.
“Eighty-one! ... Eighty-one! ... Grosvenor. Are you there? ... Eighty-one, are—you—there?”
The mumbling died away, rose again, was lost in groans. Despite the weakness and the haste, the listener realised a quality in the voice which differentiated it from those of the other occupants of the ward. It was the voice of a woman of education and refinement, a woman belonging to her own class.
Juliet shivered, and, clutching her flowers, walked quickly down the ward. Half-way down its length she met the Sister, and put a tentative question, to which was vouchsafed a cool, professional reply:
“Yes. Very sad! Internal injuries. Sinking rapidly. Evidently a girl in good circumstances.”
“Do you know her name—anything about her?”
The Sister shrugged slightly.
“Her clothes are marked ‘Alice White,’ and she had some American addresses and steamship tickets in her purse. The Lusitania landed her passengers this morning. She has said nothing coherent, and, of course, cannot be questioned. The matron is making inquiries—”
At that moment the quiet of the ward was broken by a sound of a cry of terrible import. Juliet quailed before it, and the Sister, darting forward, disappeared behind the screen.