CHAPTER XX
MYRA stood by the screened-off bed in the long ward and looked unemotionally at the unconscious man.
“Yes,” she said to the Sister, “that is Mr. John Briggs. I know him intimately.”
“Are you a relative?”
“He has no relatives.”
“You see, in a case like this, we have to report to the police. It’s their business to find somebody responsible.”
“I’m responsible,” said Myra.
The Sister looked at the tall, lean woman, so dignified in her well-made iron grey coat and skirt and plain black hat, and was puzzled to place her socially. She might be an austere lady of high degree; on the other hand, she spoke with an odd, country accent. It was, at any rate, nine hundred and ninety-nine to one that she was a genuine friend of the patient; but there was the remaining one in a thousand that she belonged to the race of cranks not unfamiliar in London hospitals.
“It’s only a matter of formality,” said the Sister, “but one must have some proof.”
So Myra drew her bow at a venture.