“Mr. Briggs was going abroad—to Poland.”
The Sister smiled with relief. In his pocket-book had been found railway tickets and unsealed letters to people in Prague and Warsaw. So long as they found some one responsible, it was all that mattered. She proceeded to explain the case. A broken thigh, broken ribs, and severe concussion. Possibly internal injuries. The surgeons could not tell, yet.
Myra scanned again the peaked bit of face beneath the headbandages, which was all that was visible of Alexis Triona, and asked:
“Can he live?”
“It’s doubtful,” said the Sister.
They moved away to the centre of the ward aisle. The Sister talked of the accident, of the patient’s position.
“He’s a rich man,” said Myra.
“So we gathered,” replied the Sister, who had in her keeping his pocket-book, stuffed with English bank-notes of high value.
“If anything should happen, you of course will let me know.”
“Your name and address?”