this hint that the interview was at an end. With a nod in the direction of his bent head, I took myself out of the room.
■ I hurried out with a great relief, and had almost reached the outlet of the dingy passage downstairs when I observed the slim outline of a girl silhouetted against the daylight in the doorway, coming in. I stepped closer to the doorway to allow her to pass, and great was my amazement as she approached to recognize in her the girl I had watched in the alcove of the Pageham some hours before. She gave me a quick glance as she went by, not as though she had seen me before, but merely the indifferent scrutiny of one person encountering another in a narrow way.
And in that moment I saw her more clearly than before; noted the sweet curves of her girlish grace, and the clear whiteness of her face in that shadowy passage like a Rembrandtesque effect. Above all, I noticed her eyes, as she hurried past with a gentle and almost inquiring glance towards me. They were beautiful eyes, with mysterious depths of the darkest blue, but the terror I had seen in them before was not visible now. Something of sadness there was, and perhaps a trace of care, but not more than you will occasionally meet in the proud, grave glance of a girl of our race.
Perhaps I had caught her look in an unconscious moment at the hotel, when she had thought herself completely alone in the midst of that chattering idle throng. Now she had put on her guard again. An English girl does not wear her heart on her sleeve, or expose her secret thoughts to the indifferent gaze of passers-by. But I knew she was in trouble and distress. Unconsciously she had revealed herself to me, and that first memory remained.
I turned and watched her going up the crooked stairs at the bottom of the passage until she was out of sight, then took my own way to the worn flagstones outside, wondering what had brought her, to the place I had just left. Did she imagine that sealing-wax and the red tape of the
law- could cure the smart in a woman's soul? I knew something of the law and its ways. It has never yet, as I verily believe, healed a single human hurt. Yet this girl, with the stricken look in her eyes, had come to its retreat, seeking (as I supposed) the law's aid.
Some unknown impulse kept me lingering in the green shade of the trees of the square, waiting for the girl to reappear. I do not think it was with any intention of speaking to her when she came forth, and yet I stayed there. A public clock in the neighbourhood of Holborn struck five as I waited, and another more distant took up the chime. As the strokes died away two people emerged from the ancient passage opposite the square and made their way towards the narrow exit from the inn. My amazement was great when I beheld in them the girl of my thoughts, accompanied by the coffin-faced lawyer who had given me the job,
Mr, Trusibond and his companion passed through the narrow alley of the inn which led into Holborn.
After all, I considered, the girl's business with the lawyer was nothing to me. I would be much better employed in looking after my own. With this belated reflection of prudence I turned—although still somewhat reluctantly—to go on my way.
Darkness was beginning to fall, and the shops were lighting up. My lodgings were off the Edgware Road, and I set out into the dusk afoot. It was a long walk there, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that from there it was but a short distance to carry my suitcase to Paddington for my night journey to Cornwall.
I reached my lodgings with a light heart, and pondered my next move. I decided to pack my few belongings in my shabby suitcase, and to leave it strapped and ready in my room until i: was time to go to the station. Far away in Cornwall a job was waiting for me, and with that knowledge I couldn't sit still to wait for the time of the train. So I went out into the Edgware Road and stared into the shop windows, anxious for the hours to go. I had no need for dinner after
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