Geoffrey seized him by the arm. “Where is she?” he asked, “and what was she like?”
“She was there a second ago,” he said, pointing to the pillar, “but I’ve lost her now—I fancy she went towards the railway station, but I could not see. Stop, is that she?” and he pointed to a tall person walking towards the Abbey.
Quickly they moved to intercept her, but the result was not satisfactory, and they retreated hastily from the object of their attentions.
Meanwhile Beatrice found herself opposite the entrance to the Westminster Bridge Station. A hansom was standing there; she got into it and told the man to drive to Paddington.
Before the pair had retraced their steps she was gone. “She has vanished again,” said “Tom,” and went on to give a description of her to Geoffrey. Of her dress he had unfortunately taken little note. It might be one of Beatrice’s, or it might not. It seemed almost inconceivable to Geoffrey that she should be masquerading about London, under the name of Mrs. Everston. And yet—and yet—he could have sworn—but it was folly!
Suddenly he bade his friend good-night, and took a hansom. “The mystery thickens,” said the astonished “Tom,” as he watched him drive away. “I would give a hundred pounds to find out what it all means. Oh! that woman’s face—it haunts me. It looked like the face of an angel bidding farewell to Heaven.”
But he never did find out any more about it, though the despairing eyes of Beatrice, as she bade her mute farewell, still sometimes haunt his sleep.
Geoffrey reflected rapidly. The thing was ridiculous, and yet it was possible. Beyond that brief line in answer to his letter, he had heard nothing from Beatrice. Indeed he was waiting to hear from her before taking any further step. But even supposing she were in London, where was he to look for her? He knew that she had no money, she could not stay there long. It occurred to him there was a train leaving Euston for Wales about four in the morning. It was just possible that she might be in town, and returning by this train. He told the cabman to drive to Euston Station, and on arrival, closely questioned a sleepy porter, but without satisfactory results.
Then he searched the station; there were no traces of Beatrice. He did more; he sat down, weary as he was, and waited for an hour and a half, till it was time for the train to start. There were but three passengers, and none of them in the least resembled Beatrice.
“It is very strange,” Geoffrey said to himself, as he walked away. “I could have sworn that I felt her presence just for one second. It must have been nonsense. This is what comes of occult influences, and that kind of thing. The occult is a nuisance.”