"Bruce," I said, "she's following us."
He glanced bade over his shoulder, and I saw him start as though
something had stung him.
"Come on!" he muttered, suddenly quickening his pace.
"Why, what does it matter?" I protested.
"Others, too," he whispered, "just behind her! Three or four of 'em!
It's that infernal charm!"
"Bosh!" I said incredulously, and then turned round to take another
look. For a moment I felt as if someone had suddenly placed a large
piece of ice inside my waistcoat. At least five women were following
us along the pavement, headed by the lady in sables. There could be
no possible doubt about it. Even as I looked two girls who had been
walking in the other direction suddenly pulled up, and then, turning
round, came hurriedly in pursuit of the rest. We seemed to be
clearing Regent Street.
"This is awful!" I gasped. "What are we to do?"
"We must t-take a taxi!" stammered Bruce, looking wildly about him.
Of course, as luck would have it, there was not a cab of any kind
passing. We couldn't wait, for every moment things were growing
worse. Women were appearing suddenly out of shops, and hurrying over
from the other side of the street in twos and threes, recklessly
indifferent to the traffic. In less than a minute a jostling crowd
of about fifty or sixty were sweeping after us up the pavement.
"Run!" gasped Bruce. "Run!"
It was, of course, about as mad a thing as we could have done; but
panic, stark, blind panic, had gripped hold of us, and our only
feeling was a frantic desire to escape. Without another word we took
to our heels.
Of what followed I have a somewhat confused recollection. I remember
a terrific uproar all round us, yells of "Suffragettes!" "Stop 'em!"
"Police!" And then two helmeted figures in dark blue suddenly leaped
across our path. I suppose they must have taken us for Cabinet
Ministers, for they opened out to let us go through, and without
hesitation hurled themselves into the wild avalanche of pursuing
women.
The check was only a momentary, one, but it saved us. Before the
shattered column could reform we had reached the corner of Vigo
Street, where a taxi--a thrice-blessed taxi with an excited,
beckoning driver at the wheel--was standing in readiness.
"Jump in!" he roared, as we hurled ourselves panting at the door.
Willing hands banged it behind us, someone raised a cheer as we sank
back on the seat, and there we were spinning past the Bodley Head,
with the tumult and shouting dying away behind us.
There are some emotions which words are quite inadequate to express.
At that moment Bruce and I were suffering from about six of them.
It was the taxi-driver who first broke the silence. At the bottom of
Bond Street he pulled up, and, projecting his head round the side of
the cab, signified his desire to speak with us. Mechanically I
pulled down the window.
"The 'Ouse of Commons, guv'nor?" he inquired.
"No," I said dully; "Cynthia's flat."
He stared at me, and I recollected myself.
"Manor Court, Marylebone Road," I observed harshly.
He spun round and we retraced our way up Bond Street.
Just as we were emerging from the bottom of Harley Street, Bruce
leaned across and laid his hand on my arm.
"After I've seen Cynthia," he said brokenly, "I shall unwish that
first wish."