We must have made an odd-looking couple in all truth—a fat, waddling, disfigured, old market woman and a dirty down-at-heels Jew pedlar, and I saw the station people were beginning to eye us suspiciously.
“I think it’s time the market woman went home,” I said.
“She is waiting for her mother, Jew.”
“I think she’ll be found at home. Barosa didn’t mean her to leave to-night or she would have been here. Nothing matters now except to get you home.”
“Where is Dr. Barosa?”
“I don’t know.” This was true in the letter; I had never been down where he deserved to be. “When I saw him last he was in the hands of the police,” I added.
“But I may be arrested also at any minute.”
“Not by the police. You are pardoned, but the other arrest is imminent.”
“What other arrest?”
“This, by the old Jew,” I replied, linking my arm in hers to leave the station. “Let’s see how fast the market woman can waddle.”