Micky sat for a few moments breathless and exhausted before he pulled himself together, and taking off his hat wiped his hot forehead.

The train was gathering speed; he let down the window with a run and looked out; the station was out of sight altogether; they were crossing the bridge under which the silent Thames flowed sluggishly.

A breath of cold air touched his hot face and he shivered suddenly and drew the window up once more.

Something had driven his thoughts back to his first meeting with Esther, to the cold silence of the night, and the hard desperation of her voice as she said––

“I didn’t mean to go home any more––I shouldn’t have ever gone home again if I hadn’t met you....”

If she got to Paris before he saw her she would feel like this again. Micky groaned.

Fortunately he had the carriage to himself, but it was a third-class compartment, and not a corridor carriage. He cursed his luck here; if there had been a corridor he could have gone the length of the train and seen if Esther were on it. As it was, he would have to wait till they reached Dover, and even then perhaps he would never find her.

He tried to calm himself with the conviction that everything would be all right, but in his heart he was despairing; if he found Esther and brought her back she would hate him for the rest of his life.

What had happened to make her rush off like this? He could not imagine. She had seemed so happy only that morning. What could account for the tragedy that seemed to breathe in every word of that little note she had left for June?

He took it from his pocket and read it again. It gave no hint of what had prompted this sudden flight. He wrote out a couple of telegrams to dispatch from Dover––one for June, and another for Driver.

He wished he had got Driver with him. There was a sort of security in the man’s stolidness.

He realised that he was without luggage, and that he had not much money. Supposing he had to go on to Paris, what the dickens was he going to do?

When the train ran into Dover he got to his feet with a sigh of relief. Quickly as he was out of the train a great many passengers had left it before him. He started at a run down the platform. He stared at every woman he met, hoping it would be Esther. The crowd was getting thick; he had to push his way unceremoniously past people; porters with luggage trucks jostled him; he began to lose his temper––he was just answering with great heat a man who had cynically asked “who he was shoving,” when some one touched his arm.

“Micky....”

For a moment Micky’s heart beat up in his throat; he turned quickly and found himself looking down into the brown eyes of Marie Deland.

If she had hoped for anything better, it must have been a shock to her to see the bitter disappointment in Micky’s face. He stammered out that he had not expected to see her, that he was in a deuce of a hurry; he hoped she would forgive him, but––

“Micky, by all that’s wonderful!” said another voice, and there was Marie’s father, the good-natured old man who had pretended to agree with his wife when she raved against Micky for the cavalier way in which he had treated his daughter, but who in his heart had indulged in a quiet chuckle, thinking that Micky had been rather clever to escape from the toils at the eleventh hour.

He shook hands with Micky heartily enough; he, at any rate, had no grudge against him. He asked Micky a hundred questions.

“Are you going over, my boy? Come with us. I’ve got a reserved carriage on the Paris express. Delighted to see you. Marie and I are just off for a little holiday by ourselves.”

He touched his daughter’s arm. “Ask him to join us, my dear.”

Micky did his best to answer civilly; he was in the deuce of a hurry, he said again; he had got to meet a friend but had missed her in the crowd.

“I came off in the deuce of a hurry,” he said. He was chafing bitterly at this enforced delay; each moment was so precious.

Marie touched her father’s arm.

“We are only keeping Mr. Mellowes, Daddy....” Something in her voice made Micky’s eyes smart. It was hard luck that for the second time he was forced to humiliate her. He stammered out incoherently that he hoped they would forgive him, but he was in such a deuce of a hurry.... He went off abruptly.

Everybody was off the train now, and many people were already on the boat. Micky remembered that he had no ticket; he entered into a hot argument with an official, who listened to him skeptically, and took as long as possible to make out the ticket; even when Micky had paid he still looked suspicious.

The gangway was still down; Micky went on board and stood as close to it as he could, scanning the face of each passer.

Esther was not amongst them.

“Stand away there––stand away....”

Micky was pushed aside, and a couple of brawny seamen hauled the gangway on to the harbour. The gap of green water was widening slowly between the pier and the ship’s side. Micky felt as if he were being exiled. Supposing she was not on the boat?

He turned away and searched the crowded deck. The boat was full, and most of the people were women, 228 but there was nobody who looked in the very least like Esther.

She would be wearing the fur coat, he was sure––the coat he had given her!

One or two people stared at him curiously. Once he came across Marie and her father on the leeward side of the boat. For decency’s sake he had to stop. He made an inane remark on the weather and said he thought they were going to have a smooth crossing.

Marie’s brown eyes lifted to his.

“You haven’t met your friend?” she said quietly.

Micky had a horrible conviction that she had not believed that he had any one to meet. He coloured in confusion as he answered––

“No––no. I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”

She moved away leaving him with her father. The old man slipped a hand through Micky’s arm.

“Don’t notice her, my boy; women are queer cattle––and I expect she’s a little sore with you still.”

Micky wished it was possible to jump overboard. He found the old man’s friendliness more insufferable than the look of reproach in Marie’s eyes. As soon as he could he got away; he went down the companion-way and wandered round despondently.

If Esther were on the boat she must have seen him and was deliberately keeping out of his way; he glanced in at the open door of the ladies’ cabin as he passed.

Several pessimistic souls who had already made up their minds to be ill, although the sea was like a mill-pond, had arranged themselves on the couches, with pillows under their heads; as Micky passed the cabin some one slammed the door smartly in his face.

He went upon deck again and stood looking out to sea, with the wind stinging his face.

It was getting dark rapidly; the lights of Dover twinkled through the greyness. Micky stood and watched till they could no longer be seen. He was chilled to the bone in spite of his warm coat; he turned the collar 229 up round his throat and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets.

His fingers came in contact with the telegrams he had written in the train and forgotten to send. He swore under his breath.

He kept out of the Delands’ way when they reached Calais; he was first off the boat; he stood in the darkness trembling with excitement.

There were all sorts of people pouring past him––men, women, and children. They all seemed happy and eager––a couple of Frenchmen standing near him chattered incessantly; Micky moistened his dry lips; there was a little nerve throbbing in his temple.

Supposing he never saw her again! His hands clenched deep in his pockets ... supposing he never met the half-shy glance of her grey eyes––supposing he never heard her voice any more––or her laugh....

The sweat broke out on his forehead. For a moment he closed his eyes with a sick feeling of hopelessness, and when he opened them again he saw Esther standing there not half a dozen paces from him.

The glare from a huge arc lamp shone full on her slim figure and golden hair.

She was looking round her in a scared, apprehensive way as if not knowing where to go.

A wave of such utter relief swept through Micky’s very soul that for a moment it almost turned him faint.

She was quite alone, but as Micky watched her he saw a French porter in a blue blouse go up to her and start chattering away, pointing to the small suit-case she carried and gesticulating violently. Esther shook her head––Micky remembered that she knew no French––but the man persisted, and she shook her head again in a frightened sort of way.

Micky covered the distance between them in a couple of strides.

“Esther....” he said, in a queer, choked sort of voice.

She turned with a stifled scream, and a most unwilling relief swept her face.

“Oh, Micky!” she said breathlessly. She put out her hand as if to grip his arm, then drew it away, moving back.

“How did you come here ... oh, how dare you follow me...?” she said passionately.

Micky took her arm very gently.

“We found your note,” he said. “I had to come ... June said....” Then suddenly his calmness broke “Oh, thank God I found you––thank God!” he said hoarsely.