Back in London he lost no time in completing arrangements for
departure. Every boat that left for France without him lessened Santa's
chance of safety. And yet, though he worked frantically, canceling
appointments and clearing up correspondence, he couldn't bring home to
himself the reality of the situation. The hut on the downs and all that
had happened there seemed something that he had read or imagined. Only
the face of Anna stood out in memory, clear-cut and actual. It seemed
impossible to believe that he, Philip Hindwood, was in league with
revolutionaries. That he was in league was proved to him when he set
about procuring the passport and visés necessary for Santa to accompany
him. By the time he obtained them, he had abused confidence and perjured
himself beyond hope of pardon. They were made out in the name of “Edith
Jones, spinster; American-born subject; aged thirty years; confidential
secretary to Philip Hindwood, whom she is accompanying.” All her permits
were marked _Special_ and _Diplomatic_. It wasn't until the bustle was
over and he was seated in the train for Dover, that the true proportions
of his entanglement dawned on him.
At Dover she was to meet him. That had been the understanding. From
then on, day in, day out, he would never be without her. No matter what
strange country he traversed, she would sit beside him, reminding him of
his complicity in her crimes. He would have to talk with her, eat
with her, pretend to consult with her, just as if she were what he had
claimed her to be--his confidential secretary. Would she have the sense
to act discreetly? Would she expect him to make love to her? He glowered
out of the window at the fleeting landscape. Any folly was possible to a
woman with her record.
What made him most furious was the easy way in which he had allowed her
to twist him round her fingers. It was the woods of Vincennes all over
again. He was going into disordered countries, where governments were
toppling and anarchy was rife. When she felt herself beyond the reach of
danger, what was to prevent her from getting rid of him? Russia, if he
got so far, was the kind of nightmare in which anything might happen. In
Russia murder was one of the fine arts. He remembered Anna's suspicion
that Santa was a Bolshevist agent. It added nothing to his comfort.
He had given way to idealism. It was the madness of a moment. It was
listening to Varensky that had worked the mischief. Varensky had said
something about idealism. What was it? That idealism was the vanishing
point--the last outpost between Man and Eternity. His words came back.
“When you gaze up a railroad track, there's always a point in the
infinite distance where, just before they vanish, the parallel rails
seem to join. If a train were ever to reach that point, it would mean
death. Life's like that--a track along which we travel on the parallel
rails of possibility and desire. The lure of the idealist is to overtake
the illusion, where possibility and desire seem to merge, and the safety
of the journey ends.”
For him the safety of the journey had ended the moment it had started.
If Varensky had meant anything by the vanishing point, he had meant that
death is the unconscious goal of all idealists. Hind-wood shrugged his
shoulders. It seemed highly probable when you took Santa with you on
your travels.
The smell of the sea was in the air. They were slowing down, grinding
their way to the docks through the town of Dover.
He didn't want to see her. He would make no effort to find her. She
might have been prevented from joining him--perhaps arrested.
After the train had halted, he took his time. No one whom he recognized
was on the platform. Directing a porter to attend to his baggage, he
went quickly to the embarkation office to get his permit for going
aboard. As he was entering, he felt his arm touched timidly, and turned.
“I'm here.”
“I see you are.”
“Didn't you expect me?”
He made an effort to act courteously. “Of course. There are formalities
to be gone through. You'd better stick close to me. Don't attract
attention. Let me do the talking.”
They fell into line behind a queue of passengers, winding slowly toward
a table where officials were receiving and inspecting passports. He
stood well in front of her, doing his best to hide her. When his turn
came and the official held out his hand, he presented her passport with
his own perfunctorily.
“Mine and my secretary's.”
The official was on the point of returning them, when a stockily-built
man leaned across his shoulder and whispered something. Both of them
looked up, staring hard at Santa.
“Which is Miss Jones?” the official asked.
“This lady at my side.”
“So you're Miss Jones, an American citizen?”
Before she could reply, Hindwood had interposed. “I've already told you
she's Miss Jones. If you'll look, you'll see that her passport's marked
_Diplomatic_ as well as mine.”
The two men consulted together in lowered tones. Then the passport was
O.K.'d and restored.
Picking it up, together with the embarkation permits, Hindwood strolled
leisurely towards the gangplank. Directly they were on board he hurried
Santa to her cabin and shut the door.
“You'll stay here till we sight France. I'm giving no one else the
opportunity for suspecting a likeness.”