"And not know what became of him, or anything? Oh, mother!" "You silly child! Why on earth couldn't you leave him to the railway people?" "And run away and leave him alone? Oh, _mother_!" "But you don't even know his name." "Mamma, dear, how _should_ I know his name? Don't you see, it was just like this." And then Miss Sally Nightingale repeats, briefly and rapidly, for the second time, the circumstances of her interview in the railway-carriage and its tragic ending. Also their sequel on the railway platform, with the partial recovery of the stunned or stupefied man, his inability to speak plainly, the unsuccessful search in his pockets for something to identify him, and the final decision to put him in a cab and take him to the workhouse infirmary, pending discovery of his identity. The end of her story has a note of relief in it: "And it was then I saw Dr. Vereker on the platform." "Oh, you saw Dr. Vereker?" "Of course I did, and he came with me. He's always so kind, you know, and he knew the station people, so...." "Where is he now?" "Outside in the cab. He stopped to see after the man. We couldn't both come away, so I came to tell you." "You stupid chit! why couldn't you tell me at first? There, don't cry and be a goose!" But Sally disclaims all intention of crying. Her mother discards the watering-pot and an apron, and suppresses appearances of gardening; then goes quickly through the house, passes down the steps between the scarlet geraniums in the over-painted goblets, through the gate on which Saratoga ought to be, and Krakatoa is, written, and finds a four-wheeled cab awaiting developments. One of its occupants alights and meets her on the pavement. A rapid colloquy ensues in undertones, ending in the slightly raised voice of the young man, who is clearly Dr. Vereker. "Of course, you're perfectly right--perfectly right. But you'll have to make my peace with Miss Sally for me." "A chit of a girl like that! Fancy a responsible man like you letting himself be twisted round the finger of a young monkey. But you men are all alike." "Well, you know, really, what Miss Sally said was quite true--that it was only a step out of the way to call here. And she had got this idea that it was all her fault." "Was it?" "I can only go by what she says." The girl comes into the conversation through the gate. She may perhaps have stopped for a word or two with cook and a house-and-parlourmaid, who are deeply interested, in the rear. "It _was_ my fault," she said. "If it hadn't been for me, it would never have happened. Do see how he is now, Dr. Vereker."