The two doctors, summoned by telephone from Torquay, stood beside Lord Bracondale’s bed, and after careful examination and long consultation, grew very grave.

His lordship had been carried unconscious to the park and upstairs into his own tastefully-furnished room, where he still remained motionless and senseless, though two hours had now passed.

In addition to severe contusions, his shoulder was badly dislocated, and it was also feared that he had suffered severe internal injury through being thrown against the steering-pillar of the car. The examination had occupied a long time, and the greatest consternation had been caused in the big household, the servants going about pale and scared.

Dr. Wright-Gilson, the elder of the two medical practitioners, a rather bent, grey-bearded man, addressing his colleague, said, after a long discussion:

“I really think that Morrison should see him. If I telephoned to him at Cavendish Square he could be down here by ten o’clock to-morrow. We could then have a consultation, and decide whether to operate or not.”

To this the younger man agreed; therefore Wright-Gilson went into the library with Jenner, the stout, white-headed old butler, and, using the private telephone to Downing Street, which stood upon the big, littered writing-table, he was quickly put on to the house of Sir Evered Morrison, the great surgeon.

The specialist, who was asleep, answered the telephone at his bedside, and, hearing of the accident, promised he would catch the next train from Paddington. Then he rose, dressed hurriedly, and left by the newspaper-train.

At eleven o’clock the next morning—by which hour the world knew of his lordship’s accident—the great specialist had made his examination and was seated in the library with the two Torquay doctors.

“No,” said Sir Evered, a tall, thin, clean-shaven man, who was a personal friend of Lord Bracondale’s. “In my opinion an operation is not advisable. The case is a serious one, and full of grave danger. But I do not think we need despair. I’ll remain here, and by this evening I shall hope to see consciousness restored.” Then he added: “By the way, are there any good nurses in Torquay?”

“The Convent of Saint Agnes is quite close. They are a Nursing Order, as you know,” replied Dr. Wright-Gilson.

“Yes, and usually most excellent. We had better send for the Mother Superior and get her to give us two trustworthy nurses. Having myself had experience of them, I have always found them most painstaking, and in every way excellent.”

“That is also my own experience, Sir Evered. Several of my patients have employed them with great success.”

“Very well; we will have them.” And Jenner was at once called and sent with a note from the great surgeon to the Mother Superior.

Twenty minutes later the grave-faced directress, who wore her black habit and wide, white collar, and spoke with a very pronounced French accent, arrived, accompanied by Jean and Sister Gertrude, whom she introduced to the three medical men standing in the library.

And very soon afterwards Jean found herself installed in the big, handsome bedroom beside the unconscious Cabinet Minister.

The white, inanimate face lay upon the pillow with the pallor of death upon it, the sheet edged with broad lace having been turned down and carefully arranged by the head housemaid.

Many and precise were the instructions which Sister Gertrude and Jean received from the great surgeon, who first explained to them the injuries from which his distinguished patient was suffering, and the nature of the treatment he intended to adopt.

The Honourable John Charlton, his lordship’s private secretary, arrived post-haste from London at midday, and took over many of the confidential papers and other documents which were lying about upon the library table.

He was anxious for the Earl to recover consciousness in order to obtain instructions concerning the attitude to be adopted towards Austria, regarding whom a ticklish point of policy had on the previous evening arisen. The political horizon of Europe changes from hour to hour.

Our Ambassador in Vienna had wired in cipher urgently requesting a response, and this only the Foreign Minister himself could give.

But the doctors would not allow him to be disturbed.

A warm, anxious day went by, and Jean found herself amid surroundings so luxurious and artistic that she gazed about her open-mouthed in wonder.

As a nurse she soon showed her proficiency and her business-like methods—a manner which at once impressed Sir Evered.

But, alas! The Earl of Bracondale still remained unconscious. His pulse was feeble, his heart was just beating; the spark of life was still aglow.

From all quarters of the world, from every one of the Chancelleries of Europe, telegrams of regret arrived. Kings, statesmen, politicians of all grades, and all parties, lawyers, diplomats; in fact, all classes, sent messages, and all day long boys kept continually cycling up the long drive through the park bearing sheaves of orange-coloured envelopes, which were opened one after the other by the Honourable John Charlton.

Not before the following afternoon did consciousness return to the injured man, and then Jean’s real work commenced.

His eyes, when they first opened, met her calm, anxious gaze.

He looked at her in astonishment, and then glanced at the other faces of the doctors around.

Sir Evered spoke as he bent over him.

“You know me—eh? Come, you’re a lot better now, my dear fellow. Just drink this,” and he took a glass from Jean’s hand.

The prostrate man swallowed the liquid with an effort. Then, staring about him with an air of astonishment, he said:

“Why—it’s you, Evered. You!”

“Yes; I’m here looking after you, and with good nursing you’ll soon be quite right again.”

His lordship drew a long breath, and for a few moments remained silent. Then he asked, in a low, weak whisper:

“What’s happened?”

“Oh, nothing very much. Don’t bother about it,” was the great specialist’s reply. “You were thrown out of your car, that’s all. No bones broken.”

“Ah! yes,” he replied, slowly raising a hand to his brow. “Ah! yes—now I remember. That wagon—right across the road—and no light upon it! Yes—I—I remember!”

“Don’t bother. That’s enough now. Just go to sleep again, my dear fellow,” said Sir Evered, soothingly, placing his hand upon his patient’s brow. “Don’t try and think. Just rest for the present.”

And thus advised, his lordship closed his eyes wearily, and was soon asleep.

“Excellent,” declared Sir Evered, much gratified when outside the room with the others, leaving Jean alone with the sleeper. “He’ll recover—no doubt he will.”

And five minutes later he was in the library, speaking over the telephone to the Prime Minister at Downing Street, while that same evening the papers gave the welcome news to the world that there was every hope of the Foreign Minister’s restoration to health.

The three medical men had strapped up the injured shoulder and applied various remedies, therefore the patient that night was in no pain, though Sister Gertrude took Jean’s place at ten o’clock and sat by his bedside all night, receiving hourly visits from the doctors.

Bracondale Park was a house of breathless anxiety through the days which followed. Sir Evered, though his presence was required hourly in London—as is the presence of such a great surgeon—remained at the bedside of his friend. They had been at Cambridge together, and ever since their undergraduate days had been intimate chums.

His lordship’s illness proved of longer duration than was at first anticipated. Sir Evered remained at Bracondale a whole week, and then, finding that his patient was progressing favourably, returned to London, leaving the case in the hands of Dr. Wright-Gilson and Dr. Noel Tanner, while Sister Gertrude and Jean did the nursing.

Life at Bracondale Jean found extremely pleasant. The great house, with its luxuriously-furnished rooms, its fine picture-gallery, where, often, in her hours of recreation, she wandered; the big winter-garden with palms and exotic flowers, the conservatories, the huge ballroom—wherein long ago the minuet had been danced by high-born dames in wigs and patches—the fine suites of rooms with gilded cornices—all were, to her, full of interest.

The great house was built by the second Earl of Bracondale, who was the famous Chancellor of the Exchequer in the reign of Charles I., and ever since the Bracondales had borne their part in the government of England.

The room allotted to Jean was a visitor’s room—a large, old-fashioned sitting-room, with a bed in one corner screened off; a room the long, leaded windows of which afforded beautiful views across the extensive, well-wooded park to the blue sea beyond. It was a place with a quiet, old-world atmosphere—a room that had never been changed for a century past. The old chintzes were of the days of our grandmothers, while the Chippendale chairs and tables would have fetched hundreds of pounds if put up at Christie’s.

The elderly housekeeper, in her black silk cap, did all she could to make her comfortable, and treated her with the greatest consideration and respect—more so, perhaps, than she did Sister Gertrude, who, of course, wore the habit of the Order, while Jean still wore her French nurse’s uniform.

Old Jenner, on the other hand, looked upon “them dressed-up Sisters o’ Mercy,” as he termed them in the servants’ hall, as interlopers, and was often sarcastic at their expense. As an old servant of the family, he felt jealous that they should wait upon his master while his presence was not permitted in the sick-room.

All his life he had been used to wait upon “his young lordship,” and he was annoyed that he was not allowed to do so at that critical hour.

As soon as the injured man was sufficiently well to talk and to recognise that he was being tended by sisters from the neighbouring convent, he treated both with the greatest consideration. A car was placed at their disposal every afternoon so that they might take an airing, while the whole house was thrown open to them to wander where they liked.

The library, however, was Jean’s favourite room. It was a big, sombre, restful place, with high windows of stained glass, a great carved overmantel, and electric lights set in the ancient oaken ceiling. Lined from ceiling to floor with books, and with several tables set about the rich Turkey carpet, it was a cosy, restful place, where one could lounge in a big arm-chair and dream.

Jean’s duties in the sick-room were never irksome. The pair took it in turns to sit with the patient every other night, and it was only then that the hours in the green-shaded night-light seemed never ending. By day she found Bracondale always interesting and frequently amusing.

After he had been in bed a fortnight the doctors allowed him to see visitors, and several distinguished men called and were admitted by Jean. These included the Prime Minister, politicians, and magnates of commerce. And there were some mysterious visitors also, including a Mr. Darnborough, who called one afternoon, being shown up by Jenner.

Jean, in surprise, found the butler and the visitor outside the door, whereupon Jenner explained:

“This is Mr. Darnborough, nurse, a very great friend of his lordship. He must see him alone, as they have confidential business to transact.”

“Thank you, Jenner,” replied Jean, rather stiffly. “If his lordship wishes to see Mr. Darnborough alone he will probably tell me so.”

And, surveying the visitor with some suspicion, she ushered him to the sick man’s side.

“Ah! my dear Darnborough!” cried his lordship, gaily, as soon as he recognised him. “I’m very glad to see you. I heard that you were in Cairo a week ago. Well, how are things in Egypt?”

“Just as full of trouble as ever,” was the reply; “but——” and he glanced inquiringly at Jean.

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” exclaimed the Earl. “Nurse Jean, might I ask the favour that you leave Mr. Darnborough to talk with me alone for half an hour? I shall be all right—and my medicine is not due until five o’clock.”

Jean smiled at the pair.

“Certainly; I will come back when it is time for your lordship to have the next dose,” she answered.

And with that she passed noiselessly out of the room, the Earl’s dark eyes following her.

The door having closed, the pair were left alone. Then the Earl lay listening attentively to the all-important secret report which Darnborough had travelled down there to make.