Still speechless, she sat and looked at him for several moments. Outside, the station now was filled with a hurrying throng on their way to the day's work. Engines were shrieking, bells ringing, the press of footsteps was unceasing. In the dark, ill-ventilated room itself there was the rattle of crockery, the yawning of discontented-looking young women behind the bar, young women with their hair still in curl-papers, as yet unprepared for their weak little assaults upon the good-nature or susceptibility of their customers. A queer corner of life it seemed. She looked at her companion and realized how fragmentary was her knowledge of him. There was nothing to be gathered from his face. He seemed to have no expression. He was simply waiting for her reply, with his thoughts already half engrossed upon the business of the day.
“Really,” she began, “I—”
He came back from his momentary wandering and looked at her. She suddenly altered the manner of her speech. It was a strange proposition, perhaps, but this was one of the strangest of men.
“I am quite willing to try it,” she decided. “Will you tell me where I can meet you later on?”
“I have an hour and a half for luncheon at one o'clock,” he said. “Meet me exactly at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square. Would you like a little money?” he added, rising.
“I have plenty, thank you,” she answered.
He laid half-a-crown upon the table and made an entry in a small memorandum book which he drew from his pocket.
“You had better keep this,” he said, “in case you want it. I am going to leave you alone here. You can find your way anywhere, I am sure, and I am in a hurry. At one o'clock, remember. I hope you will still be feeling better.”
He put on his hat and went away without a backward glance. Beatrice sat in her chair and watched him out of sight.