'As to identification marks there were none. But you'll hear all about that when you come. All I can say is that, as soon as they got the man into hospital, the nurses and surgeons became convinced that he _was_ English, and that in addition to his wounds, it was a case of severe shell-shock--acute and long-continued neurasthenia properly speaking,--loss of memory, and all the rest of it.
'Of course the chances of this poor fellow being George Sarratt are infinitesimal--I must warn you as to that. How account for the interval between September 1915 and June 1916--for his dress, his companion--for their getting through the German lines?
'However, directly I set eyes on this man, which was the week after I arrived here, I began to feel puzzled about him. He reminded me of someone--but of whom I couldn't remember. Then one afternoon it suddenly flashed upon me--and for the moment I felt almost sure that I was looking at George Sarratt. Then, of course, I began to doubt again. I have tried--under the advice of the specialist I spoke of--all kinds of devices for getting into some kind of communication with him. Sometimes the veil between him and those about him seems to thin a little, and one makes attempts--hypnotism, suggestion, and so forth. But so far, quite in vain. He has, however, one peculiarity which I may mention. His hands are long and rather powerful. But the little fingers are both crooked--markedly so. I wonder if you ever noticed Sarratt's hands? However, I won't write more now. You will understand, I am sure, that I shouldn't urge you to come, unless I thought it seriously worth your while. On the other hand, I cannot bear to excite hopes which may--which probably will--come to nothing. All I can feel certain of is that it is my duty to write, and I expect that you will feel that it is your duty to come.
'I send you the address of a man at the War Office--high up in the R.A.M.C.--to whom I have already written. He will, I am sure, do all he can to help you get out quickly. Whoever he is, the poor fellow here is very ill.'
The steamer glided up the dock of the French harbour. The dusk had fallen, but Bridget was conscious of a misty town dimly sprinkled with lights, and crowned with a domed church; of chalk downs, white and ghostly, to right and left; and close by, of quays crowded with soldiers, motors, and officials. Carrying her small suit-case, she emerged upon the quay, and almost immediately was accosted by the official of the Red Cross who had been told off to look after her.