“MURDER MOST FOUL”
“
I’m speaking from Charing Cross station; can you hear me?” the voice continued. “I’ve had a letter from my father; he’s ill, and I must go to him at once. I’m starting now, nine o’clock.”
I glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to nine.
“I’ll be with you in five minutes—darling!” I responded, throwing in the last word with immense audacity. “Au revoir; I’ve got to hustle!”
I put up the receiver and dashed back into my bedroom, where my cold bath, fortunately, stood ready. Within five minutes I was running down the stairs, as if a sheriff and posse were after me, while Mrs. Jenkins leaned over the hand-rail and watched me, evidently under the impression that I was the victim of sudden dementia.
There was not a cab to be seen, of course; there never is one in Westminster on a Sunday morning, and I raced the whole way to Charing Cross on foot; tore into the station, and made for the platform whence the continental mail started. An agitated official tried to stop me at the barrier.
“Too late, sir, train’s off; here—stand away—stand away there!”
He yelled after me as I pushed past him and scooted along the platform. I had no breath to spare for explanations, but I dodged the porters who started forward to intercept me, and got alongside the car, where I saw Anne leaning out of the window.
“Where are you going?” I gasped, running alongside.