Seated at a table, lie had watched the swing-doors for a full
half-hour. He had finished his breakfast. If he were to catch the
eight-thirty, it was time for him to be moving. He began to flirt with
the idea of postponing his journey; it was evident she had overslept
herself.
At the desk, while he settled his account, he had it on the tip of his
tongue to inquire for her, but he was daunted by the presence of the
night-porter. The man kept eyeing him with a knowing grin, as though he
were expecting just such a question.
“I won't gratify him,” Hindwood thought. “The fellow knows too much.
It's fate, if I miss her.”
He crossed the road to the station. Having secured a seat in a
first-class smoker, he roamed up and down the platform. Every few
minutes he consulted his watch as the hands circled nearer to the
half-hour. He bought papers at the news-stand and returned to buy more
papers; from there, while not seeming to do so, he could obtain a clear
view of the hotel. And still there was no sign of her.
When it was almost too late, he threw caution to the winds. At a gait
between a run and a walk, he recrossed the road and dashed up the hotel
steps. As he confronted the clerk behind the desk, he was a little
breathless; he was also aware that the night-porter's grin had widened.
“There's a lady staying here. She was to have traveled with me to
London. I'm afraid she's not been wakened.”
“A lady!” The clerk looked up with the bored expression of one who was
impervious to romance. “A lady! Oh, yes.”
“She's a passenger from the _Ryndam_,” he continued. “Her name's Miss
Gorlof. Send some one to her room to find out at once----”
The night-porter interrupted. Addressing the clerk, he said: “The
gentleman means the foreign-looking lady wot I told you about--the one
in all the furs.” Then to Hindwood, “She was called for at six this
mornin'. A gentleman in goggles, who couldn't speak no English, arrived
in a tourin' car and drove off with 'er.”
“Drove off with her. But----”
Realizing that too much emotion would make him appear ridiculous, he
steadied his voice and asked casually, “I suppose she left a note for
me?”
The clerk glanced across his shoulder at the rack. “Your name's Mr.
Hindwood, isn't it?” He raised his hand to a pigeonhole lettered “H”.
“You can see for yourself, sir. There's nothing in it.”
“Then perhaps it was a verbal message. She would be certain to leave me
her address.”
The clerk turned to the night-porter. “Did she?” The night-porter beamed
with satisfaction. “She did not.”
He had achieved his dramatic effect.
X
He was the last passenger to squeeze through the barrier. As he
scrambled into his carriage, the train was on the point of moving.
Spreading one of his many papers on his knees, he lit a cigarette. He
believed he was behaving as though nothing had happened. “That I
can take it like this proves that she was nothing to me,” he assured
himself.
Ten minutes later he discovered that he had not read a line and that the
cigarette had gone out.
“I suppose I'm a bit upset,” he admitted, “though goodness knows why I
should be. The matter's ended exactly as I wanted.”
But had it? What had he wanted? Does a man ever know what he wants where
a woman is concerned? He desires most the thing which he most dreads.
During the voyage he had wanted to win her from Prince Rogovich. On
the tug he had wanted to forget her. In the cab he had wanted to go on
kissing her forever. That morning he had wanted to save his freedom.
On the station, like a maddened schoolboy, his terror had been lest he
might lose her.
As a result he had lost her. Somewhere through the sunny lanes of Devon
she was speeding with the gentleman who “couldn't speak no English”
and wore goggles. In which direction and for what purpose he could not
guess.
He smiled bitterly. It was a situation which called for mirth. He had
accused her of having trapped him at a time when she herself had been
escaping from him. He had complained that her affection was too ardently
obvious at a moment when she was proving herself most coldly elusive.
While he had been resenting the way in which he was being hunted, she
had already abandoned him to hunt to his heart's content.
His reflections were broken in upon by a weakeyed old clergyman seated
opposite to him in the far corner.
“Excuse me, but I see by your labels that you've just landed. May I ask
whether your vessel was the _Ryndam_?”
“It was.”
“Then there's an item in the local paper which should interest you. It
has to do with Prince Rogovich, the great Polish patriot. He was your
fellow passenger, if I'm not mistaken.”
Hindwood was disinclined for conversation. He made his tone brusk that
he might discourage further questions. “You're not mistaken, and I guess
I know what you're going to tell me: that after all the preparations
made for his reception, the Prince didn't land at Plymouth but, without
notifying any one, traveled on either to Boulogne or Rotterdam.”
“But that wasn't what I was going to tell you,” the old gentleman
continued in his benevolent pulpit manner. “Oh, no, I was going to tell
you something quite different. After the _Ryndam_ left Plymouth, the
Captain had her searched from stem to stern. Not a trace of the Prince
could be found.”
“Extraordinary! I suppose the news was received by wireless. Does the
paper suggest an explanation?”
“None whatsoever. I thought you'd be interested. Perhaps you'd like to
read for yourself.”
The paper contained the bare fact as the clergyman had stated it. “A
complete search was made. All his personal belongings were found intact,
but of the Prince himself not a trace.”
Hindwood closed his eyes and pretended to sleep that he might protect
himself from further intrusions. He wanted to argue his way through this
problem and to acquit Santa of any share in what had happened. And yet,
if an investigation were held and he himself had to tell all he knew,
things would look black for her. Was that why----?
He tried to crush the ugly thought, but it clamored to be expressed.
Was that why she had made love to him--that her kiss might seal his lips
with silence?
The train was slowing down. He opened his eyes. In the cheerfulness of
sunshine life took on a more normal aspect. Towering above crowded roofs
of houses, a tall cathedral pricked the blueness of the sky.
“Where are we?”
The clergyman was collecting his bundles. “Exeter--where I alight.”
As soon as he had the carriage to himself, before any one could enter,
he reached up to the rack and quickly removed the _Ryndam_ labels from
his bag. Having done that, he stepped to the platform and went in search
of papers. The torn labels were still in his hand. Surreptitiously he
dropped them between the train and the platform, some distance lower
down than his own carriage. He realized the stealth he had employed only
when Exeter was left behind.
“Ridiculous!” he shrugged his shoulders. “It's getting on my nerves.”
In his most recently acquired batch of papers he found no reference to
the topic which absorbed him. At the time when the London press had been
published, the disappearance of the Prince had not been known to the
world.
Throughout the journey, at every fresh stopping-place, he repeated the
performance, dashing down platforms in quest of newsboys and purchasing
copies of every journal on sale. He caught himself continually eyeing
his bag to make sure that he really had removed all labels. He began
to feel as if he himself were the criminal. In his intentions he was
already an accessory after the fact. Whether Santa was innocent or
guilty, at all costs he had determined to shield her.
Through the late summer afternoon, as he drew nearer to London, his
suspense began to die. He was getting the later editions now; none of
them so much as mentioned the affair. In Plymouth and Bristol it had
probably been of local importance. He took courage to smile. What a
coward dread can make of an honest man!
Afternoon was fading into the gold of evening when they steamed into
Paddington. By making haste he could just reach the American Embassy
before closing time. It was likely that several communications had
been addressed to him there. He had cabled ahead to the Ritz for a
reservation. It wouldn't take him far out of his direction to call at
the Embassy on the way to his hotel.
In the stir and bustle of familiar London, the nightmare of the voyage
grew vague. He stepped from the carriage like a man awaking. It thrilled
him with happy surprise to discover the old gray city, plumed with smoke
and smiling, waiting unchanged beneath his feet to welcome him. The very
smell of mingled gasoline and horses from the cab-ranks was reassuring.
Every sight that his eyes encountered made him feel respectable.
“Any luggage, sir?” It was a porter accosting him.
“Yes. Two trunks. At least, I guess they're on this train.”
“Which van, sir?”
“The one from Plymouth.” Then, with conscious bravado, he added: “I'm
from the _Ryndam_. You'll recognize them by the Holland-American tags.”
The porter had gone to secure a barrow. While Hindwood waited, gazing
about him idly, his eyes were startled by a news-placard bearing the
following legend: