The New Magdalen

Horace pointed to the paper in her hand. "You can go where you like

now," he said. "Shall I wait for you here or outside?"

Mercy glanced distrustfully at Ignatius Wetzel. He was again absorbed

in his endless examination of the body on the bed. If she left him alone

with Mr. Holmcroft, there was no knowing what the hateful old man might

not say of her. She answered: "Wait for me outside, if you please."

The sentinel drew back with a military salute at the sight of the pass.

All the French prisoners had been removed; there were not more than

half-a-dozen Germans in the kitchen, and the greater part of them were

asleep. Mercy took Grace Roseberry's clothes from the corner in which

they had been left to dry, and made for the shed--a rough structure of

wood, built out from the cottage wall. At the front door she encountered

a second sentinel, and showed her pass for the second time. She spoke

to this man, asking him if he understood French. He answered that he

understood a little. Mercy gave him a piece of money, and said: "I am

going to pack up my luggage in the shed. Be kind enough to see that

nobody disturbs me." The sentinel saluted, in token that he understood.

Mercy disappeared in the dark interior of the shed.

Left alone with Surgeon Wetzel, Horace noticed the strange old man still

bending intently over the English lady who had been killed by the shell.

"Anything remarkable," he asked, "in the manner of that poor creature's

death?"

"Nothing to put in a newspaper," retorted the cynic, pursuing his

investigations as attentively as ever.

"Interesting to a doctor--eh?" said Horace.

"Yes. Interesting to a doctor," was the gruff reply.

Horace good-humoredly accepted the hint implied in those words. He

quitted the room by the door leading into the yard, and waited for the

charming Englishwoman, as he had been instructed, outside the cottage.

Left by himself, Ignatius Wetzel, after a first cautious look all round

him, opened the upper part of Grace's dress, and laid his left hand on

her heart. Taking a little steel instrument from his waistcoat pocket

with the other hand, he applied it carefully to the wound, raised a

morsel of the broken and depressed bone of the skull, and waited for the

result. "Aha!" he cried, addressing with a terrible gayety the

senseless creature under his hands. "The Frenchman says you are dead,

my dear--does he? The Frenchman is a Quack! The Frenchman is an Ass!"

He lifted his head, and called into the kitchen. "Max!" A sleepy young

German, covered with a dresser's apron from his chin to his feet, drew

the curtain, and waited for his instructions. "Bring me my black bag,"

said Ignatius Wetzel. Having given that order, he rubbed his hands

cheerfully, and shook himself like a dog. "Now I am quite happy,"

croaked the terrible old man, with his fierce eyes leering sidelong

at the bed. "My dear, dead Englishwoman, I would not have missed this

meeting with you for all the money I have in the world. Ha! you infernal

French Quack, you call it death, do you? I call it suspended animation

from pressure on the brain!"