The Sister smiled at me. She seemed inclined to humour me—as she would a child.
“Do not perturb yourself, I beg of you,” she said in a sympathetic voice. “There is really no need for it. Only just remain calm—and all will be right.”
“But you do not explain, Sister,” I said. “Why am I here? And where am I?” I asked, gazing vacantly around me.
“You are with friends—friends who have looked after you,” was her reply. “We are all very sorry for your motor accident.”
“Motor accident!” I echoed. “I have had no motor accident.”
Again the dark-eyed woman smiled in disbelief, and it annoyed me. Indeed, it goaded me to anger.
“But you told us all about it. How you started out from the Quay at Boulogne late at night to drive to Abbeville, and how your hired chauffeur held you up, and left you at the roadside,” she said. “Yet the curious fact about your strange story is the money.”
“Money! What money?” I gasped, utterly astounded by the Sister’s remark.
“The money they found upon you, a packet of bank notes. The police have the five thousand pounds in English money, I believe.”