Juliet drew a deep breath, and stared with dilated eyes at the opposite wall. “How could I?” she asked herself, breathlessly. “How dared I? How can I?” And then, with a bursting laugh, “But I will!” she cried, and leaped nimbly to her feet.
“Urgent! Nice people! Good chance! A guest in the house!” Her lips moved in repetition of the different phrases as she walked rapidly back in the direction of the hospital. She knitted her brows in the effort to understand, to reconcile contradictions. What was this Alice White, and on what mission had she crossed the ocean? And who was Eighty-one, Grosvenor, who issued orders as to a subordinate, and gave instructions as to reports?
Only one thing seemed certain, and that was that it would be many a long day, if ever, before poor Alice White was fit to take up any work, however interesting. Remembering that last choking cry, it seemed probable that even now—Juliet resolutely stifled further questionings until once more she stood within the portals of the hospital, and made her inquiries of the porter. He retired, and returned, after a few minutes’ absence, with a face appropriately lengthened.
“Gone, miss! Directly you left. Went off in a moment.”
Juliet nodded, and turned back to the street. What exactly had she intended to do had Alice White still been alive? Honestly, she did not know! It seemed as though she would never be able to answer that question. She waved it impatiently aside. Why trouble about might-have-beens? The girl was dead! The only question of importance which now remained was, what was she herself going to do?
Juliet thought of the long years of boredom and waiting which had made up her life; she thought of her dull, comfortable home; of her dull, comfortable visits, and longingly, daringly, she thought of the interesting “case” which was “urgent,” and a “good chance.” She recalled with a tingling of excitement her aunt’s morning announcement, which necessitated her own departure on the morrow.
“I could go over to Nunkton, and see what it meant. If there was anything I didn’t like I could move on at once to the Blakes. No one need know; no one need guess. Even if I stayed for a few days, it could be arranged!” She stopped short in the middle of the pavement, and drew a deep breath of excitement.
“It’s my chance!” she cried to herself. “The chance I’ve been waiting for! Whatever happens, whatever comes of it—I shall go!”
The next day Juliet set forth on her voyage of adventure, with the mingling of elation and nervousness inevitable under the circumstances. Remindful of telephone instructions, she attired herself with especial care, and was agreeably conscious that she looked her best. A travelling costume as smart as it was simple, a trig little hat, with just one dash of colour at the side to give the needed cachet and emphasise the tints of the face beneath. “Really quite a creditable face!” she told herself, smiling back at a reflection of grey eyes thickly fringed with black lashes, curling, humorous lips, and the prettiest flush of pink—genuine, washable pink—upon the cheeks. “If I were happy, if I were interested, I might be almost—beautiful,” she told herself with a sigh. “Every woman grows plain when she is superfluous and alone.”
Seated in the train, drawing near to her destination, Juliet found herself repeating the words over and over, like a child rehearsing a lesson. “Alice White,” cried the mental voice, “Alice White,” and again, “Alice White. It’s my name! I must answer to it. I must give it when asked. I am Alice White, professional something—I don’t know what. I am obeying a telephone summons meant for someone else, and, if I don’t want to be discovered within five minutes of my arrival, I must keep my wits about me, and think seventeen times at least before I utter a word. I’m to be met at the station and treated as one of the family, and to remember that appearance is a strong point, and wear my best clothes...” She knitted her brows, and for the hundredth time endeavoured to reach a solution of the mystery. “I can’t be a sick-nurse; the clothes settle that. If it had been that, I should have had to confess at once. But in other capacities I’m intelligent, I’m experienced, I’m willing. I’m more than willing—I’m eager! There’s no reason why I should not do as well as the real Alice. After all, it’s quite a usual thing to take up work under a professional name. Writers do it, artists, actors; there can be no harm in using the poor girl’s name, if I do my best with her work.”