HER FEARS ARE SHARPENED
Most of the communications between Belinda and Frank Sanderson during this forenoon had been of the most casual kind—a glance, a whispered word, a sly pressure of the hand. But now she must give the strangely worded note, presumably from Monsieur Renaud, to the wounded aviator.
There were cases being removed from the ward each day and fresh ones being brought in; so the work of temperature taking, wound dressing, chart writing, and all the other routine duties, went on much as they had when Belinda's ward was part of a French field station.
She was fully as busy now as she ever had been, save that she did not have so many serious cases at one time as she had had when the great battle began in the winter. The Germans had brought another hospital unit into this field; and although the guns poured their iron hail into the lines of living men, day and night, this particular hospital unit to which Belinda was now attached was not over-worked.
The girl was being worn out, however, physically and mentally. After six months of work under the rules of the French Croix Rouge she had been entitled to a furlough, and Madame la Directrice had urged her to take it.
"One can never tell when one's chance may come again. Besides, it is a good rule to take all one is entitled to in this world—and a little bit more!"
Belinda now saw the wisdom in this very practical and particularly French observation. Two weeks in Paris with Aunt Roberta would have been heavenly! So the exhausted Red Cross nurse thought as she went about her duties on this day. And if she could only have Frank there, to nurse him properly!
She slipped the paper Erard had given her, with a whispered word, into Frank's hand. Then, at another time, there was opportunity to discuss it.
"Do you suppose it is from that Monsieur Renaud?" Belinda asked.
"Undoubtedly. It would be like him to use just such means of communication—to warn me against the very man who bore the note," Frank returned, chuckling. "Ah, Renaud is a sharp one."