But Mary could believe it. She told me afterward that, from the instant in which she had heard that Bill Patch was dead, it seemed to her that there was something inevitable in that arbitrary solution to the affair. When General Kendal brought me back to the Manor House--and, after all, we were at the bridge less than an hour--Sallie was with me. She had helped most pluckily and sensibly, with a silent efficiency that spoke admirably for her training. Martyn had remained with the A. A. men who were beside the wrecked car. The early morning light was flooding the windows and there was in the air the curious chill that is sometimes the preliminary, in England, to a very fine summer day. The faces of those three women, waiting there, were ghastly, and Claire every now and then had a paroxysm of sobbing and low, muffled screaming. General Kendal took his wife away. He had already told me, what was indeed sufficiently obvious, that she would inevitably be obliged to give evidence at the inquest, and the poor old fellow was already dreading the ordeal for her and hoping vehemently that the fear of it would not occur to her until the last possible moment. The Ambreys were staying in the house, and Sallie said, after one look at Mary: “Mother, won’t you come upstairs?” Mary’s face was gray. She only asked me two questions: “Who is with Nancy?” “Dolly Kendal--good girl! Alfred went and fetched one of them, and she is going to spend the night with her.” “Mrs. Harter? Does she know?” “She hasn’t spoken, but they say she’s been conscious the whole time.” “Mother, come,” said Sallie, and they went upstairs together, Sallie holding her mother’s hand as I had never seen her do since she was a tiny child. Poor Claire cried and asked incessant questions, to which she herself supplied most of the answers, and walked up and down, and threw herself backward and forward in a deep armchair, and finally turned absolutely faint from sheer nervous exhaustion. Her maid got her upstairs and into bed at last. There was nothing left of the night, but a ghastly interval of waiting, and silence, and realization, followed. I had seen Bill Patch--unrecognizable--for one instant only.... And I had seen old Carey, my neighbor for years, crushed and broken, to all intents and purposes dead.... I had seen Harter, the stranger whom we none of us knew except as the husband of Diamond Ellison, after the accident. And it was his face which was to haunt me longest. * * * * * The theatrical litter had all been cleared away out of sight. The servants, white-faced, went about their duties as usual. Claire remained in her room. Quite early in the forenoon, Sallie and Mary Ambrey went down to the hospital. They saw Nancy, who was pathetically courageous, and heard that she had telegraphed to Bill’s father. They asked for Mrs. Harter.