“I say!” called the cabman, “there’s a lady just got out of this ‘ere cab that I think ye’d best look after. She looked uncommon queer, and she told me to drive to one of the bridges; I wish she may not be after some mischief or other.”
“Which way did she go?” asked the policeman, interested.
“Straight ahead, and she’d a wild, dazed look I didn’t like.”
Webster listened no longer. With swift steps he walked on, peering around him as he went. The bridge was fairly crowded, but he pushed his way, and in a little while he saw the figure of a woman before him; of a woman whose form reminded him of the slender girlish one of whom he was thinking. Some passer-by went roughly against her, and she reeled to one side, and leaned panting against the parapet of the bridge.
In an instant Webster was at her side.
“Did that man hurt you?” he asked, quickly.
Then the woman turned her head, and Webster saw the white, despairing face, and the large, violet-rimmed eyes.
“Are you Miss Churchill?” said Webster, in a low tone, and he laid his hand gently on her arm.
A cry broke from May’s white lips.
“Oh! don’t speak to me, Mr. Webster. Oh! leave me alone—please leave me alone!” she gasped out.