"Yes, sir.... Good-day, sir, and thank you.... Not that way, sir.... This door on the left.
"Good-day."
The cabman was waiting. Stooped down from his perch to receive instructions.
"The Telegraph Office, Charing Cross."
There the fare despatched a wire to his Wivernsea landlady; telling her to pack everything of his in his portmanteaux, and send them up by the afternoon train to the care of the Cloak Room, Charing Cross.
Then he drove to his publishers. He would be away some time, and there were certain business arrangements to be made.... Then to his flat in Shaftesbury Avenue. He slept there the night.
More correctly, he spent the night there. Spent it in pacing to and fro, recalling all the events of that long last month. All the happiest days; all the most miserable ones.
He was heart-full of pity for the woman, poor soul! Wished he could wipe away the bitterness of his words that night on the seat at Wivernsea. That was impossible. But he could try to make amends.
In the early morning—dawn just lightening the sky—he wrote a note to Gracie's mother: directed it to Ivy Cottage. Just a purely formal little letter, saying he was called away on urgent business and would not return to Wivernsea again.
As coming from an author it was a disappointing note; there was nothing clever in it. Most authors' notes, perhaps because literary fireworks are supposed to be contained in them, are disappointing.