“Well, nurse, I hardly expected that,” he said, reprovingly, his serious eyes fixed upon hers.

Jean turned scarlet, and then admitted, as she stood with her back to the writing table:

“I saw the photograph in your despatch-box, and it attracted me. Then I saw those papers.”

“And they seem to have greatly interested you, nurse—eh?” Darnborough remarked.

“A woman is always interested in what does not concern her,” she replied with a forced smile.

“Well, forgive me for saying so, but I consider it gross impertinence on your part to have pried into my papers, young lady,” exclaimed the chief of the Secret Service, with some asperity.

“I trust you will forgive me, Mr. Darnborough, but, truth to tell, I could not resist the temptation.”

“Just as many other people could not resist—if they knew what secrets this despatch-box of mine sometimes contains,” he laughed. “Well, nurse, I forgive you,” he added cheerfully, his manner changing. “Go back to Lord Bracondale, and make haste and get him well again. England is sorely in need of him to-day—I can assure you.”

“Does he wish for me?”

“Yes, he gave me a message asking you to return to him at once.”

“I’ll go, then,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’ve forgiven me. My action was, I know, horribly mean and quite unpardonable. Good evening.”

“Good evening, nurse,” Darnborough responded, as he busied himself repacking his papers. She left the room.

The great man of secrets was, as yet, in ignorance that the pretty, graceful, half-French nurse and FrÄulein Montague, Dick Harborne’s friend, were one and the same person.

At that moment he had been talking with the very woman whom his agents had been hunting the whole of Europe to find. Yet he bowed her out of the room in entire ignorance of that fact.

And as she ascended the great, broad, thickly-carpeted staircase to the sick man’s room she was filled with regret that Darnborough had not entered five minutes later, when, by that time, she would have learnt the secret of what was contained in those papers concerning Dick Harborne’s death.

Her head swam as she recalled that tragic afternoon and also the afternoon succeeding it, when she had witnessed the terrible accident to Noel Barclay, the naval aviator. She recollected how Ralph had been at her side in the cab when they had both witnessed the collapse of the aeroplane, and how utterly callous and unmoved he had been.

For the thousandth time she asked herself whether Ralph Ansell, her dead husband, had ever discovered her friendship with Richard Harborne. It was a purely platonic friendship. Their stations in life had been totally different, yet he had always treated her gallantly, and she had, in return, consented to assist him in several matters—“matters of business” he had termed them. And in connection with one of them she had gone to Germany as FrÄulein Montague and met him on that memorable day when she acted as a go-between.

Had Ralph found this out? If so, had Dick died by her husband’s hand?

She was at the door of his lordship’s room, a pretty figure in her blue cotton gown and white nursing-apron and cap. For a moment she paused to crush down all recollections of the past. Then she turned the handle and entered on tip-toe, fearing lest her patient might be asleep.

But he was very wideawake—planning a line of policy to defeat the suggested Austro-German alliance against Great Britain. Prompt measures were necessary. At eight o’clock in the morning two King’s Messengers would be at Bracondale ready to take the cipher despatches—autograph instructions to the British Ambassadors to the Courts of both Empires.

Though the Earl of Bracondale was confined to his bed, the foreign policy of the nation had still to be conducted, and he had resumed control of affairs as soon as ever his hand could use a pen.

A whole stream of officials from Downing Street, and others, called at Bracondale daily and passed through his room. And to each and sundry he gave precise and implicit instructions, the marvellously ingenious policy evolved by his remarkable brain.

“It is time for your medicine,” Jean said, in a soft voice, as she entered. “It was due half an hour ago, but I hesitated to disturb you with your visitor.”

“Quite right, nurse. Never disturb me when Mr. Darnborough calls. My business with him is always of the very highest importance, and always strictly confidential.”

Jean crossed to the small round table whereon stood the bottle and medicine-glass, and after measuring the mixture carefully, handed it to him, asking:

“Is your shoulder quite easy now?”

“Quite, nurse,” was his reply, as, raising himself on his other elbow, he tossed off the medicine, pulling a wry face afterwards. Then, with a calm, set expression upon his countenance, he looked at her, and remarked:

“I should think nursing must be a terribly dull, monotonous life, isn’t it? Surely the continual atmosphere of the sick-room is very depressing?”

“I do not find it so,” she replied brightly, with her pretty French accent. “I am devoted to my calling.”

“I quite recognise that,” said his lordship, looking into her sweet, serious eyes. “Yet it requires a good deal of self-denial, I should imagine.”

“Perhaps,” and she smiled. “But self-denial is one of the first lessons learnt in our Sisterhood.”

“You joined the Sisterhood in France, did you not?” he asked.

“Yes; at the chief convent at Enghien, near Paris. But, of course, I have not yet taken my vows as a nun.”

“You intend to do so, I suppose?”

She was silent a few seconds; then, with her eyes averted, she answered frankly:

“It is more than possible.”

“Would it not be a great sacrifice? Remember, you are young. Why should you cut yourself off so entirely from the world?”

Again she was silent. Then, seeing that he awaited her reply, she answered:

“If I take the vows I shall do so because I have certain reasons for so doing.”

“Strong reasons?” he asked, still looking into her face.

She raised her fine eyes to his again, and nodded in the affirmative.

Then she turned and walked towards the table to put down the empty glass.

Lord Bracondale for the first time realised that the nurse by whom during the past few days he, confirmed bachelor that he was, had become so strangely attracted, possessed a chapter of her life which she hoped was closed for ever.

The curious situation attracted him. What, he wondered, could be the nature of the secret of such a good, pure-minded, honest woman?

His eyes followed her as she moved about the room in silence. He was wondering.

The autumn days passed slowly. His was a long illness.

Out in the great park the golden leaves, in falling, were swept along the wide avenue by the strong winds from the sea, and the face of the country had now become brown and desolate.

Jean, when she took her walk alone each afternoon, when off duty, wandered over the bare fields or beside the grey, chill sea until, so dispiriting did she find the scene, that she preferred to spend her hours of rest in the big, well-warmed house or at the convent itself.

His lordship’s recovery was very slow.

Sir Evered Morrison had been down three times from London and seen the patient, and on the last occasion had been accompanied by another renowned surgeon.

Though it was kept a profound secret, the truth was that the Earl was not progressing as well as had been expected. Perhaps the strain of State affairs was too heavy upon him, for though far from recovered, he worked several hours with Mr. Charlton, his secretary, who sat at a table at his bedside, writing despatches as his lordship dictated them.

Thus three months went by. November came and went, and still the Earl had not left his room, although he was allowed to sit by the fire in his dressing-gown for two hours each day.

The room had been transformed into a small library, and here his lordship received callers who came from London upon official business. Indeed, he on more than one occasion received an ambassador of one of the Great Powers.

To Jean it was all a very novel and strange experience. At her patient’s bedside she met some of the greatest of the land, men whose names were as household words. Even a royal prince called one day in his motor-car and sat beside the fire with the invalid. And if the truth be told, scarcely a person who visited the Earl did not remark upon his nurse’s grace, sweetness, and good looks.

Inwardly, the Earl of Bracondale was much mystified. Unconsciously, though occupied with State affairs, he found himself thinking of her, and when she was absent for rest he looked forward eagerly to her return. To Sister Gertrude he spoke but little, while to Jean he was always frank, open, and exceedingly chatty.

Yet constantly did the suspicion arise in his mind that she was in possession of some dread secret, that there was a chapter in her past which she was undesirous of revealing.

In the middle of December he grew convalescent, and Sir Evered one day announced that he would, with care, completely recover.

The daily bulletins in the newspapers ceased to appear, and the world then knew that the renowned Foreign Secretary was on his way back to health.

This he attributed to Jean’s careful nursing. To every one he was loud in her praises. Indeed, he often spoke of her in eulogistic terms while she was present, and on such occasions she would blush deeply and declare that she had only performed her duty.

In those weeks they had been constantly in each other’s society. The long days in which she sat at his bedside reading or doing needlework, and the nights when each quarter of an hour she stole in stealthily to see that all was well, she had grown very partial to his society. He was so bright and intellectual, and possessed such a keen sense of humour when his mind was not overshadowed by the weight of political events. Often he would chat with her for hours, and sometimes, indeed, he would put a subtle question upon the matter in which he now took so keen an interest—her past.

But to all his cleverly-conceived inquiries she remained dumb. Her wit was as quick as his, and he saw that whatever was the truth, her intelligence was of a very high order. She would speak freely upon every other subject, but as to what she had done or where she had been before entering the Sisterhood she refused to satisfy him.

The past! To her it was all a horrible nightmare. Often, when alone, the face of Ralph Ansell, the man who had been shot like a dog by the police, arose before her. She tried to blot it out, but all was, alas! of no avail.

Sometimes she compared her patient with her dead husband. And then she would sigh to herself—sigh because she held the Earl in such admiration and esteem.

Just after Christmas another diplomatic bombshell burst in Europe. Darnborough came to and fro to Bracondale half a dozen times in the course of four or five days. Once he arrived by special train from Paddington in the middle of the night. Many serious conferences did he have with his chief, secret consultations at which Jean, filled with curiosity, of course was not present, though she did not fail to note that Darnborough usually regarded her with some suspicion, notwithstanding his exquisite politeness.

More than once in those last days of the year Jean suggested that her presence at Bracondale was no longer required. But her patient seemed very loath to part with her.

“Another week, nurse,” he would say. “Perhaps I will be able to do without you then. We shall see.”

And so indispensable did his lordship find her that not until the last day of January did she pack her small belongings ready to be carried back to the convent.

It was a warm, bright evening, one of those soft, sunny winter days which one so often experiences in sheltered Torquay, when Jean, having sent her things down by Davis, the under chauffeur, put on her neat little velvet hat and her black, tailor-made coat, and carrying her business-like nursing-bag, went into the huge drawing-room, where she had learnt from Jenner the Earl was reading.

The big, luxurious, heavily-gilded apartment was empty, but the long, French windows were open upon the stone terrace, and upon one of the white iron garden chairs the Earl, a smart, neatly-dressed figure in black morning coat, widely braided in the French manner—a fashion he usually affected—sat reading.

Jean walked to the window, bag in hand, and paused for a few seconds, looking at him in silence.

Then, as their eyes met and he rose quickly to his feet, she advanced with outstretched hand to wish him farewell.