though just as eager for companionship, talked only to English and Americans of what she considered a certain social standing. The French she had no truck with unless guaranteed of respectable family life as evidenced by little ones who shared the parental table in the dining room.
A Frenchman looking like a prosperous business man glanced into the salon, was intimidated by its air of female solidarity and went out again with a look of lingering regret at Mademoiselle Jeanne Maricot.
Miss Hetherington began to count stitches sotto voce.
'Twenty-eight, twenty-nine – now what can I have – Oh, I see.'
A tall woman with red hair looked into the room and hesitated a moment before going on down the passage towards the dining room.
Mrs. Calvin Baker and Miss Hetherington were immediately alert. Mrs. Baker slewed herself round from the writing table and spoke in a thrilled whisper.
'Did you happen to notice that woman with red hair who looked in, Miss Hetherington? They say she's the only survivor of that terrible plane crash last week.'
'I saw her arrive this afternoon,' said Miss Hetherington, dropping another stitch in her excitement. 'In an ambulance.'
'Straight from the hospital, so the manager said. I wonder now if it was wise – to leave hospital so soon. She's had concussion, I believe.'
'She's got strapping on her face, too – cut, perhaps, by the glass. What a mercy she wasn't burnt. Terrible injuries from burning in these air accidents, I believe.'
'It just doesn't bear thinking about. Poor young thing. I wonder if she had a husband with her and if he was killed?'
'I don't think so,' Miss Hetherington shook her yellow grey head. 'It said in the paper, one woman passenger.'
'That's right. It gave her name, too. A Mrs. Beverly – no, Betterton, that was it.'
'Betterton,' said Miss Hetherington reflectively. 'Now what does that remind me of! Betterton. In the papers. Oh, dear, I'm sure that was the name.'
'Tant pis pour Pierre, ' Mademoiselle Maricot said to herself. 'Il est vraiment insupportable! Mais le petit Jules, lui il est bien gentil. Et son pere est tres bien place dans les affaires. Enfin, je me decide!'
And with long graceful steps Mademoiselle Maricot walked out of the small salon and out of the story.
II
Mrs. Thomas Betterton had left the hospital that afternoon five days after the accident. An ambulance had driven her to the Hotel St. Louis.
Looking pale and ill, her face strapped and bandaged, Mrs. Betterton was shown at once to the room reserved for her, a sympathetic manager hovering in attendance.
'What emotions you must have experienced, Madame!' he said, after enquiring tenderly as to whether the room reserved suited her, and turning on all the electric lights quite unnecessarily. 'But what an escape! What a miracle! What good fortune. Only three survivors, I understand, and one of them in a critical condition still.'
Hilary sank down on a chair wearily.
'Yes, indeed,' she murmured. 'I can hardly believe it myself. Even now I can remember so little. The last twenty-four hours before the crash are still quite vague to me.'
The manager nodded sympathetically.
'Ah, yes. That is the result of the concussion. That happened once to a sister of mine. She was in London in the war. A bomb came, she was knocked unconscious. But presently she gets up, she walks about London and she takes a train from the station of Euston and, figurez-vous, she wakes up at Liverpool and she cannot remember anything of the bomb, of going across London, of the train or of getting there! The last thing she remembers is hanging up her skirt in the wardrobe in London. Very curious these things, are they not?'
Hilary agreed that they were, indeed. The manager bowed and departed. Hilary got up and looked at herself in the glass. So imbued was she now with her new personality that she positively felt the weakness in her limbs which would be natural to one who had just come out of hospital after a severe ordeal.
She had already enquired at the desk, but there had been no messages or letters for her there. The first steps in her new role had to be taken very much in the dark. Olive Betterton might perhaps have been told to ring a certain number or to contact a certain person at Casablanca. As to that there was no clue. All the knowledge she had to go on was Olive Betterton's passport, her letter of credit, and her book of Cook's tickets and reservations. These provided for two days in Casablanca, six days in Fez and five days in Marrakesh. These reservations were now, of course, out of date, and would have to be dealt with accordingly. The passport, the Letter of Credit and the accompanying Letter of Identification had been suitably dealt with. The photograph on the passport was now that of Hilary, the signature on the Letter of Credit was Olive Betterton in Hilary's handwriting. Her credentials were all in order. Her task was to play her part adequately and to wait. Her master card must be the plane accident, and its resultant loss of memory and general haziness.
It had been a genuine accident and Olive Betterton had been genuinely on board the plane. The fact of concussion would adequately cover her failure to adopt any measures in which she might have been instructed. Bewildered, dazed, weak, Olive Betterton would await orders.
The natural thing to do would be to rest. Accordingly she lay down on the bed. For two hours she went over in her mind all that she had been taught. Olive's luggage had been destroyed in the plane. Hilary had a few things with her supplied at the hospital. She passed a comb through her hair, touched her lips with a lipstick and went down to the hotel dining room for dinner.
She was looked at, she noticed, with a certain amount of interest. There were several tables occupied by business men and these hardly vouchsafed a glance at her. But at other tables, clearly occupied by tourists, she was conscious of a murmur and a whisper going on.
'That woman over there – the one with the red hair – she's a survivor of the plane crash, my dear. Yes, came from hospital in an ambulance. I saw her arrive. She looks terribly ill still. I wonder if they ought to have let her out so soon. What a frightful experience. What a merciful escape!'
After dinner Hilary sat for a short while in the small formal salon. She wondered if anyone would approach her in any way. There were one or two other women scattered about the room, and presently a small, plump, middle-aged woman with well-blued white hair, moved to a chair near hers. She opened proceedings in a brisk, pleasant American voice.
'I do hope you'll excuse me, but I just felt I had to say a word. It's you, isn't it, who had the wonderful escape from that air crash the other day?'
Hilary put down the magazine she was reading.
'Yes,' she said.
'My! Isn't that terrible? The crash I mean. Only three survivors, they say. Is that right?'
'Only two,' said Hilary. 'One of the three died in hospital.'
'My! You don't say! Now, if you don't mind my asking, Miss – Mrs…'
'Betterton.'
'Well, if you don't mind my asking, just where were you sitting in that plane? Were you up at the front or near the tail?'
Hilary knew the answer to that one and gave it promptly.
'Near the tail.'
'They always say, don't they, that's the safest place. I just insist now on always having a place near the rear doors. Did you hear that, Miss Hetherington?' She turned her head to include another middle-aged lady. This one was uncompromisingly British with a long, sad, horselike face. 'It's just as I was saying the other day. Whenever you go into an aeroplane, don't you let those air hostesses take you right up to the front.'
'I suppose someone has to sit at the front,' said Hilary.
'Well, it won't be me,' said her new American friend promptly. 'My name's Baker, by the way, Mrs. Calvin Baker.'
