“What night can you come?”
“I’ve got to go down to some friends on the river for the week-end. That will take me up to Monday.”
“And this is Thursday. Let me see. How will Wednesday next suit you?”
“I should be delighted to come.”
Gerard was on his feet, most anxious to get away, for he had heard the door shut after Rachel, and he was determined to follow her and to witness, if possible, her meeting with the man of the white mustache. He shook hands with his hostess, and went away with the proper air of leisured reluctance.
But when once he was outside, he went up the street at a great pace, taking it for granted that Rachel, who was no longer in sight, would have gone in the same direction as the stranger.
He slackened his pace when he got to Sloane Square, and taking great care never to leave the shelter of a crowd, a matter which was easy enough at that time in the afternoon, he looked about him in all directions for a sign of either the white-haired man or Miss Davison.
And at last he caught sight of them both, the man a little in front of the girl, making their way to the station.
They had no sooner disappeared than Gerard crossed the road hastily in pursuit, and, still taking care to keep himself out of their sight, watched them go down the stairs; taking a ticket himself, he followed them down to the platform, where they were now engrossed in conversation.
Gerard had deliberately set himself the task of getting as near as he could to them without being seen, in order to overhear, if possible, enough of their conversation to know in what relation these two stood to each other.