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in-Flossie's or mine," Geraldine said. "Don't feel bad, Rache. We'll find a way to run that villain to earth and get our money back-yours too. In the meantime we get to play the part of merciful angels. I fancy it."
    "We had better go look the patients over, Gerry, while we have time," Flossie said, getting to her feet. "We are going to have to get ready for work soon. We still have to earn our daily bread."
    They all discussed the mystery of the unconscious man's identity as they stood about his bed a few minutes later, gazing down at him. There was no knowing who he was, of course. But they all agreed that he was probably a gentleman-an officer. For one thing, it appeared that he must have had a horse. The cut and lump on his head suggested that he had done more than slip and fall as he walked through the forest. The wounds were more consistent with a fall from horseback. Then there were the facts, pointed out by Flossie, that his hands were not callused and his fingernails were well manicured. His body showed no sign of abuse either, apart from the recent wounds-there were no whip marks on his back, Bridget reported, to suggest that he was a private soldier. His dark hair was short and fashionably cut, Rachel could recall even though it was now almost completely covered by the bandage. He had a prominent nose-an aristocratic nose, according to Geraldine, though that in itself was inconclusive evidence of his social status.
    Rachel sat up with him all night though there was nothing to do but gaze at him and occasionally feel his cheeks and his forehead for telltale signs of fever and his neck for the beat of his pulse-and listen to the sounds of merriment from downstairs and later to different sounds from the other bedchambers.
    This time they did cause Rachel discomfort. But she could feel no moral superiority over her friends and no disapproval of the way in which they had chosen to earn their living-if they had had any choice in the matter. Not for a moment had they blamed her for what had happened, though they had ranted and raved against Mr. Crawley, with whom she had left Brussels a few days before. They were housing and feeding her with the little money that was left them and would continue to do so, she did not doubt, with the money they were now earning and the money they would earn in the nights and days to come.
    In the meanwhile, she was living the life of an idle lady and was doing nothing to contribute.
    Perhaps she ought to put that matter right, she thought.
    It was a prospect upon which she did not care to dwell, though there was very little to distract her during that night of vigil except the man on the bed. She imagined that he must be rather handsome under more normal circumstances. She tried to picture him with his eyes open and color and animation in his face and the bandage gone from his head. She tried to imagine what he would say, what he would tell her about himself.
    She did make a few trips up to the attic to make sure that Sergeant Strickland did not need anything, but each time he was sleeping.
    How very unpredictable life was, she thought. After a precarious childhood and girlhood with a father who constantly gambled and was more often than not only half a step ahead of his creditors, and after taking a position as companion to Lady Flatley following his death, a dreary existence to say the least, she had thought just a few days ago that finally she had found security and possible happiness as the bride of a man worthy of her utmost respect and loyalty, even affection. Yet now here she was, as single as the day she was born and living in a brothel, watching over an anonymous wounded man, and wondering whatever was to happen to her.
    She yawned and dozed in her chair.
    CHAPTER III
     
    A LLEYNE BECAME AWARE OF PAIN AND TRIED to escape from it by sinking back into the blessed darkness of oblivion. But it was not to be ignored. Indeed, there was so much of it that he could not even analyze its