"Perhaps," I suggested, utterly at a loss what to say, "he found some work, or—"
"You won't see me again."
"Work! Jack never did a day's work in his life; he was not made to work."
"Do you think that some of his friends—" I began rather hopelessly.
No," he replied, with a deep tone of sadness in his voice; "no; not one of his friends ever heard of him—that's four—no, five years ago. Five years—and night and day I think of those words, 'You will look after Jack, Tom.'"
There was a silence I did not know how to break.
"I think, Sister," he added, looking up with eyes which long sorrow had filled with wonderful depth of expression, "I think I should have put an end to my life before now; but I knew father's first question would be, 'Have you looked after him, Tom?'"
The door opened to admit the stretcher with a new case from the surgery, and Dr. Freston was in a moment the professional man, absorbed in investigating the extent of the new arrival's injuries.
Before leaving the ward he turned to the bedside of the patient whose friendless condition had led to our conversation. He took down the head-card to fill up the details.
"Name, Sister?"
"George Thomas."
"Age?"
"I do not know, he looks about forty; but he is very weather-beaten."
The doctor glanced at the tanned, scarred face, nearly hidden by bandages, and stood hesitating, pen in hand.
"Occupation—do you know?"
"Sailor."
"No other particulars, Sister?"
He laid the card on the table, and wiped his pen carefully—a methodical and orderly man in every detail of his work.
"I only found a few coppers and these old papers in his pocket," I said, showing the contents of a pocket-book, much the worse for wear. One crumpled piece of paper had the words, '15, Back Wells-court, Hull,' written upon it; probably the address of his last lodging. I proceeded to unfold another piece, and found an old, plain, gold locket, worn thin and bright; one side was smooth, on the other was a monogram still faintly legible, 'J. F.'"
I felt it suddenly snatched from my hands.
Dr. Freston had seized it, and, carrying it quickly across the ward, turned the gas full on, and gazed on the locket with eyes that seemed to pierce it through.
"Look, Sister!" he said, and his strong hand shook as he held it towards me, "there can be no mistake. I remember this locket so well. Jack gave it to my father with his photograph inside before he went to school, and after father died Jack kept it. It was an old joke of theirs to take each other's things, because they were marked with the same initials. I could swear to this anywhere, and I see quite clearly how it came here. Jack met
