Eight minutes later, when the whistle blew and the doors slammed, Martin jumped into the train. He staggered along the corridors, over kit and luggage and bodies, calling Jenny's name. Two or three times he was answered, not seriously. There were cheers. The drugged dawn-wind blew drowsily. When they reached King's Cross, be swore to himself, it would be all right But, when that mob charged through the barriers, he couldn't find her either.
That was all too, except for the long waiting.
Ahead of him now, on this brilliant morning of July 11th, loomed the dun-coloured premises of Willaby's. Sedate and solid, hushed and holy, Willaby's yet wore an air of expectancy. How many treasures from the houses of the great and the near-great, of furniture and china and silver, of tapestries and pictures and armour: how many of these have passed under the hammer at Willaby's, perhaps, no man can compute. The porter — who recognized Mr. Martin Drake as a black-and-white artist of something more than national reputation — respectfully held open one door. "Morning, sir!"
"Good morning." The image of Jenny, held in abeyance, started up again like a toothache we think vanished overnight "Er-have they started yet?"
The porter eyed him reproachfully.
"Not till eleven, sir. As usual, Got your catalogue?’
"No. I'm just looking on today. What’s up this morning?"
"Furniture and carpets, sir. Mainly seventeenth and eighteenth century."
To judge by the subdued murmur of voices from upstairs, there must be a fair-sized crowd. A number of persons were mounting the broad, dingy staircase. At the top it opened into a large, square room, walls panelled in some material which resembled faded brown burlap, where they displayed specimens of future auctions. Beyond it lay another large room, with towering bookshelves. Both of these rooms opened, at right-angles, into the main auction-room.
"Hel-lo, Drake!"