Читать книгу Passers-By - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 12

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The girl paused at the threshold of the sitting-room, and opening the door softly, looked in. Drake was lying huddled up on the sofa, his face buried in his arms. Chicot sat a few feet away, regarding him dolefully. At the sound of her coming, both turned toward the door. Drake sprang to his feet. A little cry broke from his lips.

ristine!" he exclaimed. "You are back again! What has happened? Why did you leave me?"

She looked at him for a moment steadily. Certainly he was a strange-looking figure. His hair was tangled and disarranged. There were patches of red upon his face. His clothes were splashed with mud. She held out her hands with a little gesture, almost of aversion. Then she slowly began to remove the pins from her hat.

"Ambrose," she said, "you have been drinking."

"God knows I needed to drink!" he cried. "I was away three, perhaps five, minutes. When I came back you were gone. I waited, we waited, Chicot and I. When they made us move on, we came back again. We walked on the pavement, we stood in the street, the hours went, and you did not come. Yes, it is true, Christine. Then I drank. What was I to do? I could not eat, and I was faint, faint with fear. But you have come back," he added, with a little break in his voice.

"Of course I have come back," she interposed wearily. "What was there else to do?"

"You want something to eat!" he exclaimed eagerly.

"Not a thing," she answered. "I have had dinner at a restaurant. I have dined, actually dined, Ambrose. Think of it! I have seen clean linen, flowers, and silver. I have eaten warm, well-cooked food. I have even tasted champagne."

The joy died out of his face. Once more he was haggard. "With whom?" he demanded. "With whom have you been?"

"With no one of my own choice," she answered. "I met him face to face, and you were not there. I was obliged to listen to him. It was the Englishman. You remember? The one from whom we escaped only last night."

"I know," the dwarf said. "Hannaway, his name was. God knows where he came from! He is well again, then. He was not badly hurt."

"No," she answered, "he is quite recovered."

"You went to dinner with him?" he exclaimed, his voice trembling. "Why did you do that? Where did you go? Why did you not keep him talking until I came?"

"It was no use," she answered. "We could not have escaped from him. It was best to let him talk."

"You told him anything?" Drake asked.

"Nothing!" she answered.

"How much does he know?"

She shook her head thoughtfully. "He is one of those silent persons," she said, "who say little, who ask questions, and whose face never changes. How much he knows I could not tell."

"Did he come home with you?" Drake demanded. "Does he know where we live?"

"He knows nothing," she answered.

"Tell me," Drake asked, "what if we fail also in London?"

"We cannot fail," she answered. "We must find him. He is here somewhere. I know it. We are in the same city. In time we must come face to face. Then he shall know what it is to hear words of truth. He shall hear what a woman, even though she be only a girl, thinks of a traitor."

"It is a great city, this," he said thoughtfully. "We may search day by day, month by month, even year by year, and the one person for whom we look may escape us."

"We must take our chance," the girl answered doggedly. "He must be found. In time we shall find him. I am sure of it."

"And meantime we starve," Drake muttered, "you and Chicot and I. The pennies come hardly all the time, and the piano is wearing badly. The man told me to-day that I should have to pay for two fresh notes. It is the damp and the rain that do it. What a country it is, Christine!"

She saw the gleam in his eyes, and she answered him almost roughly. "Oh, I know!" she said. "You are longing for the sunshine, for the smell of flowers, the warm south winds. Don't you think that I, too, miss them? It is a hideous country, this, but we have not ourselves to think of. Remember the man whose life is worse even than ours, who waits, who has nothing else to do but wait and hope."

"It shall be as you say," Drake answered. "We will stay, if you will have it so."

"Stay we must," the girl answered passionately. "It is not of my choice, it is not a matter of will. We are here. We must remain here."

There was a tap at the door. The child who carried up Christine's breakfast entered. She held in her hand a twisted scrap of paper.

"A gent left this 'ere for you," she explained.

Christine unfolded the note with curious fingers. "For me?" she repeated. "A gentleman left it for me?"

Drake came softly nearer, with darkening face. The child, who saw prospects of trouble, lingered. Christine read the few lines, scrawled across a half-sheet of paper, and her eyes flashed.

"Look, Ambrose!" she cried. "See! It is a message from the skies, this. Read!"

"I cannot read," he muttered. "My eyes are dim." She read it to him:

Be at Victoria Station when the eleven o'clock train leaves for the Continent to-morrow. Watch the passengers.

There was no signature, nothing on the paper by which they could tell from whom it had come. Christine's eyes were on fire with excitement.

"To-morrow!" she cried. "The eleven o'clock train at Victoria!"

"Who sent you that note?" Drake demanded.

She laughed. Her fingers went to her lips, and she threw an imaginary kiss. "I cannot tell," she answered, "but this is for him, and more, wherever he may be."