It was Frank.
He came towards me, uncertainly swaying with the movement of the swaying train.
‘Good God!’ he muttered, and stopped within a yard of me.
I clung convulsively to the framework of the doorway. Our lives paused.
‘Why have you followed me, Frank?’ I asked gloomily, in a whisper.
I had meant to be severe, offended. I had not meant to put his name at the end of my question, much less to utter it tenderly, like an endearment. But I had little control over myself. I was almost breathless with a fatal surprise, shaken with terrible emotion.
‘I’ve not followed you,’ he said. ‘I joined the train at Paris. I’d no idea you were on the train till I saw you in the corner asleep, through the window of the compartment. I’ve been waiting here till you came out.’
‘Have you seen the Vicarys?’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Ah! You’ve been away from London all this time?’