“Then you may call me a cab at once,” said Mr. Montrose, handing his companion from the coupé, and leading her through the station.
The cab drew up.
The officious guard held the door open until Mr. Montrose had put his companion in and taken his seat beside her.
“Where shall I order the man to drive, sir?” asked the guard.
“To Euston-square Station, of course,” replied Mr. Montrose.
“A runaway match, as sure as shooting. They didn’t even stop to take their luggage,” said the guard to himself, as he closed the door.
The order was given, and the carriage started.
It was a dark, foggy morning, into which broad day seemed unable to break. The streets were at this hour half-deserted, and very dreary. The carriage rattled noisily over the stones between closed shops and darkened houses, and drew up before Euston-square Station.
Here the scene was much busier. A crowd of carriages of all descriptions were continually drawing up or driving off. A multitude of people were pouring in and out of the building, for one train had just arrived, and another was just about to start.
Mr. Montrose alighted, handed out his companion, and paid and dismissed the cab. And at the same moment a newly-arrived traveller stepped up, engaged the same cab, and ordered the man to drive to “Mivart’s.”