He was glad, at any rate, that the visibility was good.
And then he looked around for Heloise. They had arranged to meet for the briefest space of time.
At ten minutes to eleven, he grew restive, was on the point of picking up his valise, when he saw her hurrying toward him, glancing furtively behind. And there was something in her face that made his breath come a little more quickly.
“Follow me into the waiting-room!”
She had passed him with this muttered message. Like a man in a dream, Gordon picked up his bag and followed. The big waiting-hall was nearly empty, and to its emptiest corner she led him.
“Gordon, a dreadful thing has happened.” Her agitation communicated itself to his unquiet bosom. “My husband has returned unexpectedly from Kongo. He is following me ... he is mad—mad! Oh, Gordon, what have I done!”
He did not swoon; rather, he experienced all the sensations without losing consciousness.
“He swears I have transferred my affections, and says he will never rest until he stretches the man dead at my feet. He said he would do dreadful things ... he is a great admirer of Peter the Great.”
“Is he?” said Gordon. It seemed a futile question to ask, but he could think of nothing else. And he was not a little bit interested in Mr. van Oynne’s historical leanings.
“Gordon, you must go on to Ostend and wait for me,” she said rapidly. “I will come as soon as possible ... oh, my dear, you don’t know how I’m feeling!”