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?” She gave it. The sister wrote it down on a note-pad. “Could I see him just once more?” Myra asked. “Certainly.” They went round the screen. Myra stood looking down on the bit she could see of the man who had brought catastrophe on her beloved. The shock of recognition, although expected, aroused her pity. Then her heart surged with fierce resentment. Serve the lying rascal right. Why hadn’t the motor-lorry finished the business right away? For all her cultivated impassivity of demeanour, she stood trembling by the bedside, scarcely knowing whether she wished him to die or live. Had he crossed her path unrelated to Olivia, she would have succumbed to his boyish charm. He had ever been courteous, grasping with his subtle tact the nature of the bond between her mistress and herself. So she half-loved, half-loathed him. And yet, all this considered, it would be better for Olivia and for himself if he were to die. She glanced swiftly around. The Sister had been called away for a second. She was alone behind the screen. She knew that if she could take that bandaged head in her gloved hands and shake it, he would die, and Olivia would be free. She shivered at the extraordinary temptation. Then reaction came and sped her from his side. She met the Sister. “Can I come again to see how he is getting on?” “By all means.” “I shouldn’t like him to die,” said Myra. Said the Sister, somewhat mystified at this negative pronouncement: “You may be sure we’ll do all we can.” “I know,” said Myra. * * * * * Of these proceedings, and of these conflicting emotions, she said nothing to Olivia. Nor did she say anything of subsequent visits to the hospital where Triona still lay unconscious. In a short time Olivia recovered sufficiently to dispense with the nurse. The doctor prescribed change of air. Olifant once more suggested Medlow, and this time she yielded. But on the afternoon before her departure, while they were packing, she had a strange conversation with Myra.