Accosting a porter, “The Seafold platform?” he asked breathlessly.
“Same as the one for Brighton.”
“That tells me nothing. There's no luggage. Show me.”
Before he had passed the barrier, he was aware that the train was crowded. In third-class compartments passengers were standing. To discover any one under these circumstances would be a labor of patience. Carriage-doors were being banged and locked. Even at this final moment his habitual caution reasserted itself. What else but folly could result from an adventure so recklessly undertaken?
The porter caught him by the arm. “'Ere you are, mister. 'Op in. You're lucky.”
No sooner had he squeezed himself into the remaining seat than, with a groaning jerk, the train started.
VI
Lucky! The luckiest thing that could have happened to him would have been to be left behind. Here he was, following a woman whose face he had not seen, to a place which, up to a few moments ago, he had not known existed. Even to believe that he was following her required optimism; he had no proof that she was on the train. Probably it had been part of her strategy to send him scurrying on this fool's errand, in order that her accomplices might be undisturbed while they ransacked his rooms in his absence.
“I'll make an end of this nonsense,” he told himself, “by alighting at the next stopping-place.”
But where was the next stopping-place? He glanced along the double row of his fellow-passengers, barricaded behind their papers. He wanted to ask his question and watched for an opportunity. At last, losing patience, he nudged the man beside him.