One thing at least was certain,—her father could not have left Berlin for the purpose of meeting her en route, or he would not have started from the Friedrichstrasse station.
With a rush all the doubts and perplexities that I had kept at bay, even since I received Anne’s post-card, re-invaded my mind; but I beat them back resolutely. I would not allow myself to think, to conjecture.
I moped around aimlessly for an hour or two, telling myself that Berlin was the beastliest hole on the face of the earth. Never had time dragged as it did that morning! I seemed to have been at a loose end for a century or more by noon, when I found myself opposite the entrance of the Astoria Restaurant.
“When in difficulties—feed,” Jim Cayley had counselled, and a long lunch would kill an hour or so, anyhow.
I had scarcely settled myself at a table when a man came along and clapped me on the shoulder.
“Wynn, by all that’s wonderful. What are you doing here, old fellow?”
It was Percy Medhurst, a somewhat irresponsible, but very decent youngster, whom I had seen a good deal of in London, one way and another. He was a clerk in the British Foreign Office, but I hadn’t the least idea that he had been sent to Berlin. He had dined at the Cayleys only a week or two back.
“I’m feeding—or going to feed. What are you doing here?” I responded, as we shook hands. I was glad to see him. Even his usually frivolous conversation was preferable to my own meditations at the moment.
“Just transferred, regular stroke of luck. Only got here last night; haven’t reported myself for duty yet. I say, old chap, you look rather hipped. What’s up?”
“Hunger,” I answered laconically. “And I guess that’s easily remedied. Come and join me.”