“Your father was too much in love with life to go out of it voluntarily,” said Sister Baring.
“Then what the blazes did he do, and why did he do it?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Is he alive or dead?”
“How should I know, Mr. Baltazar?”
“He never wrote to you—after——?”
“Why should he have written to me?” she interrupted.
The rebuke in her voice and eyes sent the young man into confused apologies.
“Naturally not. You must forgive me, Sister; but, as I’ve told you, I’ve never met a pal of that mysterious father of mine before. I want to get all the information I can.”
She drew a chair and sat by him. The great hall was very still and, in contrast with the vivid sunshine perceived through the eastern windows, very dark. Through the open door came the scents of the summer gardens. The air was a little heavy. She felt her cap hot around her temples, and lassitude enfeebling her limbs. The strain of the war years began to tell. She had regarded this appointment as a rest from the intolerable toil of the General Hospital in a large town which she had just quitted. Before then she had served in France. And before that—for many years—she had followed the selfless career of the nurse. Now, suddenly, her splendid nerve showed signs of giving. If she had not sat down, her legs would have crumpled up beneath her. So she thought. . . .