He had expected that outside the hotel, in the throng of anonymous
traffic, she would wait for him. Without giving any further sign that
she was aware of him, she moved quietly through the fashionable crowd of
Piccadilly and turned into the sunlit leisure of St. James Street. The
unconscious gaiety of her way of walking was strangely out of keeping
with her garments of bereavement. Hindwood's curiosity was piqued. In a
shamefaced way he was overwhelmingly interested. He felt himself capable
of a great romance. For the moment he was almost grateful for the
annoyances that had presented him with so thrilling an opportunity.
What was he meant to do? The message had forbidden him to accost her. He
had been ordered merely to follow. How long and whither? At the Foreign
Office a high official was waiting for him, expecting every minute to
hear him announced. To wander through London after an unknown woman was
the trick of a gallant or a moonstruck boy. He was neither. He was a man
of discretion, who aimed at becoming the advisor of statesmen and
yet his conduct was open to every misinterpretation. He began to
feel himself a scoundrel. For a man whose emotions had always been
shepherded, the sensation was exciting and not wholly unpleasant.
If he could only learn something about her! Crossing to the opposite
pavement, he hurried his pace till he was abreast of her.
She was young. Her figure was slight and upright. She was about the
same build as Santa, but seemed taller. If she were indeed Santa, this
impression of added height might be due to the somberness of her attire.
She was so carefully veiled that even her hair was hidden; there was
no feature by which he could identify her. He tried another experiment.
Recrossing the street to a point some distance ahead, he loitered before
a shop, making a self-conscious pretense of studying its wares. He heard
the rustle of her crêpe as she drew near him. She went by him so closely
that she almost touched him. He was conscious of the faint fragrance of
her perfume. In the window he caught the dim reflection of her figure.
At the moment that she was immediately behind him, she moved her head in
a backward gesture, seeming to indicate that he should follow. When
he turned to obey, she was drifting through the September sunshine,
completely self-absorbed and unnoticing.
Traveling the yard of St. James Palace, she entered the Mall. There she
hesitated, giving him time to catch up with her. A taxi was crawling by.
She hailed it. Addressing the driver, but glancing directly at himself,
she said in a sweet, distinct voice:
“Victoria Station. The Brighton platform.”
V
Was she Santa? The voice had sounded different, yet, had his life
depended on it, he could not have decided. There was only one way of
finding out--by joining her on the Brighton platform. This would mean
missing his appointment at the Foreign Office. He was prepared to make
the sacrifice, but he had no guarantee that the chase would end there.
It was possible that she would still refuse to satisfy his curiosity and
compel him to accompany her further. His rôle was that of the incautious
fly. But who was the master-spinner of this web in which it was intended
that he should become entangled? Was it the Little Grandmother? He
had asked her whether they would meet again. In the light of present
happenings, her answer took on a sinister meaning, “Will you want to
to-morrow?”
As he stood there in the sunshine of the Mall, with the thud of
fashionable equipages flashing by, a sullen conviction grew up within
him that he was becoming afraid. An empty taxi hove in sight. He
beckoned. Before it had halted, he was standing on the running-board.
“To Victoria Station. The Brighton platform.” The driver took his
brevity for a sign that a train was to be caught by the narrowest of
margins. He made such speed that they drew up against the curb just as
the widow's vehicle was departing. She threw him a furtive glance
from behind her veil, then turned and moved away as though he were
the completest stranger. Imitating her discretion, he followed at a
distance.
Halting before the ticket-office, she produced her purse. He edged
nearer; it was necessary that he should learn her destination.
“A first-class single to Seafold,” he heard her say.
When his turn came, he repeated her words, adding: “How long before it
starts?”
“Five minutes,” the clerk told him.
As he gathered up his change, he was surprised to observe how little
was left out of his pound. He had supposed Seafold would prove to be a
suburb. By the cost of his ticket he estimated that it must be a journey
of at least sixty miles. Was it worth the taking? Could he return that
same evening? He might get stranded. If that happened, he was unprepared
to spend the night. These considerations were swept aside when he
noticed that the widow had once more vanished.
Accosting a porter, “The Seafold platform?” he asked breathlessly.
“Same as the one for Brighton.”
“That tells me nothing. There's no luggage. Show me.”
Before he had passed the barrier, he was aware that the train was
crowded. In third-class compartments passengers were standing. To
discover any one under these circumstances would be a labor of patience.
Carriage-doors were being banged and locked. Even at this final moment
his habitual caution reasserted itself. What else but folly could result
from an adventure so recklessly undertaken?
The porter caught him by the arm. “'Ere you are, mister. 'Op in. You're
lucky.”
No sooner had he squeezed himself into the remaining seat than, with a
groaning jerk, the train started.