ike yourself!
Mumbles a bit at times, delirious-like--nothing you can understand.
There! she's beginning again!"

The sound of the thin, strained voice sent a shiver down Juliet's spine,
for there was in it a note which even her unaccustomed ears recognised.
She turned to depart, with the natural shrinking of the young and
healthy, but her haste made her careless, and the remaining bunches of
flowers tilted out of her basket and rolled along the polished floor.
Those that had fallen the farthest were almost touching the screen, and
as Juliet bent to pick them up the mumbled voice seemed suddenly to grow
into distinctness.

It was a number that the voice was mumbling; number whispered over and
over.

"Eighty-one! ... Eighty-one! ... Grosvenor. Are you there? ...
Eighty-one, are--you--there?"

The mumbling died away, rose again, was lost in groans. Despite the
weakness and the haste, the listener realised a quality in the voice
which differentiated it from those of the other occupants of the ward.
It was the voice of a woman of education and refinement, a woman
belonging to her own class.

Juliet shivered, and, clutching her flowers, walked quickly down the
ward. Half-way down its length she met the Sister, and put a tentative
question, to which was vouchsafed a cool, professional reply:

"Yes. Very sad! Internal injuries. Sinking rapidly. Evidently a girl
in good circumstances."

"Do you know her name--anything about her?"

The Sister shrugged slightly.

"Her clothes are marked `Alice White,' and she had some American
addresses and steamship tickets in her purse. The _Lusitania_ landed
her passengers this morning. She has said nothing coherent, and, of
course, cannot be questioned. The matron is making inquiries--"

At that moment the quiet of the ward was broken by a sound of a cry of
terrible import. Juliet quailed before it, and the Sister, darting
forward, disappeared behind the screen.

Alas for Alice White, who but a few hours ago had been young and strong,
and heedless of disaster! Juliet descended the staircase of the
hospital thrilling with horror at the remembrance of that cry, her mind
seething with agitated questions. Who was Alice, and who--a thrill of
excitement ran through her veins--who was Eighty-one, Grosvenor, with
whom the dying girl's thoughts had sought communion?

Grosvenor? That meant London. Alice White, then, had friends in
London. Would it not be better to comm