'Yes.'
'And there was no sign of recognition?'
'No.'
'Poor dear fellow!' said the Sister, stooping over him again. There was a profound and yearning pity in the gesture. 'I wish we could have kept him more alive—more awake—for you, to see. But there had to be morphia this morning. He had a dreadful night. Are you quite sure? Wouldn't you like to come back this afternoon, and watch him again? Sometimes a second time—Oh, and what of the hands?—did you notice them?' And suddenly remembering Dr. Howson's words, the Sister pointed to the long, bloodless fingers lying on the sheet, and to the marked deformity in each little finger.
'Yet—but George's hands were not peculiar in any way.' Bridget's voice, as she spoke, seemed to herself to come from far away; as though it were that of another person speaking under compulsion.
'I'm sorry—I'm sorry!'—the Sister repeated. 'It's so sad for him to be dying here—all alone—nobody knowing even who he is—when one thinks how somebody must be grieving and longing for him.'
'Have you no other enquiries?' said Bridget, abruptly, turning to pick up some gloves she had laid down.
'Oh yes—we have had other visitors—and I believe there is a gentleman coming to-morrow. But nothing that sounded so promising as your visit. You won't come again?'
'It would be no use,' said the even, determined voice. 'I will write to Dr. Howson from London. And I do hope'—for the first time, the kindly nurse perceived some agitation in this impressive stranger—'I do hope that nobody will write to my sister—to Mrs. Sarratt. She is very delicate. Excitement and disappointment might just kill her. That's why I came.'
'And that of course is why Dr. Howson wrote to you first. Oh I am sure he will take every care. He'll be very, very sorry! You'll write to him? And of course so shall I.'