Lucky! The luckiest thing that could have happened to him would have
been to be left behind. Here he was, following a woman whose face he had
not seen, to a place which, up to a few moments ago, he had not known
existed. Even to believe that he was following her required optimism; he
had no proof that she was on the train. Probably it had been part of her
strategy to send him scurrying on this fool's errand, in order that her
accomplices might be undisturbed while they ransacked his rooms in his
absence.
“I'll make an end of this nonsense,” he told himself, “by alighting at
the next stopping-place.”
But where was the next stopping-place? He glanced along the double row
of his fellow-passengers, barricaded behind their papers. He wanted
to ask his question and watched for an opportunity. At last, losing
patience, he nudged the man beside him.
“Excuse me, sir; I'm a stranger. I've made a mistake. My ticket's to
Seafold, wherever that may be, and I--”
With his nose still glued to the page, the man muttered: “That's all
right. You don't need to worry. It's where you're going.”
“But it isn't all right,” Hindwood contradicted with a shade of
annoyance. “I don't want to go to Seafold; I want to return to London.
What I'm trying to ask you is where can I get out?”
“Lewes, if you think it's worth while.”
“Why shouldn't I think it's worth while?”
The paper rustled testily and was raised a few inches higher. “Because
Lewes is almost at Seafold. It's the junction where you change--the one
and only stop between here and Brighton.”
Turning away disgustedly, he watched the swiftly changing landscape.
Everything that met his eyes was beautiful, with a domestic,
thought-out, underlying tenderness. It had all been planned, that
was what he felt, by the loving labor of countless generations. In
a homeless man like himself the sight created a realization of
forlornness. He had traveled five continents and had planted his
affections nowhere. It was the same with his human relations. He could
reckon his acquaintances by the thousand, yet there was no one to whom
he was indispensably dear. By a mental transition, the implication of
which he scarcely appreciated, he began to think of Santa.
They were slowing down. He was surprised to discover that an hour had
gone by. The man at his side folded up his paper. Now that they were
about to part, he considered it safe to be friendly.
“We're coming into Lewes,” he said with a smile. “The Seafold train will
be waiting just across the platform. You can't miss it.”
Hindwood thanked him brusquely.
What to do next? If he were fortunate in catching an express, he could
be in London in time to dine. As he stepped out, he saw the Seafold
local waiting. What good would it do him to go to Seafold? Yet to quit
now would be humiliatingly unadventurous. He was moving slowly towards
the stair, when he was arrested by a voice.
“If you wouldn't mind? It was stupid of me to drop it.”
He turned sharply. She was leaning out of a carriage window which he was
in the act of passing.
Without giving him time to question, she explained: “My ticket--it
slipped from my hand. There it is behind you.”
The moment he had stooped and returned it, she withdrew herself. It
had happened so quickly that he had no chance to guess at the features
behind the heavy veil. With a promptitude of decision which almost
deceived himself, as though he had never harbored any other intention,
he opened the door and clambered into the carriage next to hers.
“That's that,” he thought, smiling tolerantly at his relieved sense of
satisfaction. And then, “It was no accident. She saw that I was giving
up the chase. She did it to keep me going. What's her game?”
Whatever her game was, he was well on the road to enlightenment. The
engine was puffing through a valley, across salt-marshes intersected by
dykes and sluggish streams, where derelict boats lay sunken in the mud,
rotting among the wild-flowers. Grazing sheep made the quiet plaintive
with their cries. Gulls, disturbed by the train's impetuous onrush, rose
and drifted lazily into the peace that slumbered further inland. Of a
sudden, with a gesture of exaltation, the gleaming chalk-cliffs of the
coast leaped into sight and beyond them the dull flash of the Channel.
He was clamorous with excitement. Curiosity beat masterfully on the door
of the future. He had to find out. Why had he been brought here? What
had Santa to do with it? Who was the woman in the next compartment?
They had halted several times. Each time he had watched carefully to see
whether she was eluding him. Again their speed was slackening. They were
entering a little, sandy town, dotted with red-brick villas, bleached
by the wind and sun. He caught glimpses between the houses of a battered
esplanade, of concrete breakwaters partly destroyed, of a pebbly beach
alternately sucked down and quarrelsomely hurled back by the waves. Over
all hung the haunting fragrance of salt, and gorse, and wild thyme.
They had come to a standstill. Passengers were climbing out and greeting
friends. A porter flung wide the door of his carriage, shouting,
“Seafold! Seafold!”
Having watched her alight, he followed. She was a few paces ahead,
picking her way daintily through the crowd. Again she was all discretion
and gave no hint that she had noticed him. Outside the gate, cabmen
offered themselves for hire. She shook her head denyingly and passed on
with her tripping step. Not until the station had been left behind did
he remember that he ought to have inquired at what times the trains
departed for London. Too late! His immediate business was keeping her in
sight.
With the unhesitating tread of one familiar with her surroundings, she
chose what seemed to be the most important street. It was narrow and
flanked by little, stooping cottages, most of which had been converted
into shops which cater to the needs of tourists. It was the end of the
season. A few remaining visitors were sauntering aimlessly up and down.
Natives, standing in groups, had the appearance of being fishermen. Some
of them nodded to her respectfully; without halting, she passed them
with a pleasant word. At the bottom of the street she turned into a
road, paralleling the sea-front, which led through a waste of turf and
sand into the wind-swept uplands of the open country. Just where the
country met the town there stood a lath-and-plaster house, isolated,
facing seaward, creeper-covered, surrounded by high hedges. It was more
pretentious than any he had seen as yet. Giving no sign that she was
aware she was followed, she pushed open the rustic gate, passed up the
red-tiled path, produced a latch-key, and admitted herself. There, in
the bare stretch of road, having lured him all the way from London,
without a single backward glance or any sign that would betray her
recognition of his presence, she left him.