I'm overwrought to-night. When I'm in
work, I'm ever so rich. I know you mean kindly. Let me go."
"I'll do nothing of the kind. It's all very important to me. I'm
going to drive you home."
He caught hold of her arm, the while he hailed a passing hansom.
When this drew up to the pavement, he said:
"Get in, please."
"But--"
"Get in," he commanded.
The girl obeyed him: something in the man's voice compelled
obedience.
He sat beside her.
"Now, tell me your address."
Mavis shook her head.
"Tell me your address."
"Nothing on earth will make me."
"The man's waiting."
"Let him."
"Drive anywhere. I'll tell you where to go later," Windebank called
to the cabman.
The cab started. The man and the girl sat silent. Mavis was not
reproaching herself for having got into the cab with Windebank; her
mind was full of the strange trick which fate had played her in
throwing herself and her old-time playmate together. There seemed
design in the action. Perhaps, after all, their meeting was the
reply to her prayer in the tea-shop.
The cab drove along the almost deserted thoroughfare. It was now
between ten and eleven, a time when the flame of the day seems to
die down before bursting out into a last brilliance, when the houses
of entertainment are emptied into the streets.
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