He could only keep his eyes on her. “And have you made out the very train—?”
“The very one. Paddington—the 6.50 ‘in.’ That gives us oceans; we can dine, at the usual hour, at home; and as Maggie will of course be in Eaton Square I hereby invite you.”
For a while he still but looked at her; it was a minute before he spoke. “Thank you very much. With pleasure.” To which he in a moment added: “But the train for Gloucester?”
“A local one—11.22; with several stops, but doing it a good deal, I forget how much, within the hour. So that we’ve time. Only,” she said, “we must employ our time.”
He roused himself as from the mere momentary spell of her; he looked again at his watch while they moved back to the door through which she had advanced. But he had also again questions and stops—all as for the mystery and the charm. “You looked it up—without my having asked you?”
“Ah, my dear,” she laughed, “I’ve seen you with Bradshaw! It takes Anglo-Saxon blood.”
“‘Blood’?” he echoed. “You’ve that of every race!” It kept her before him. “You’re terrible.”
Well, he could put it as he liked. “I know the name of the inn.”
“What is it then?”
“There are two—you’ll see. But I’ve chosen the right one. And I think I remember the tomb,” she smiled.