We arrived at Calais, and the passage across the Channel was without incident of any sort, and we found ourselves at Victoria Station at an early hour on the following morning. It was a dreary, cold, and foggy day, and I shivered as I stood in my fur cloak on the platform while Mademoiselle ran wildly about, collecting the luggage, and trying to find a porter to convey it to the Customs. Mademoiselle evidently did not appreciate England, and I felt that the air was more bitingly cold than in Paris. We got into a cab and were driven as fast as possible through the West End towards that dreary part of the town where the old house stood.
Yes, the old house was there; I had almost expected to see that it too had slipped away into the past with all the rest, that the shadowy house as well as the shadowy times had vanished into illimitable space. But it stood firm, and there on the steps was Charley. He had opened the door as soon as ever he heard the sound of wheels drawing up on the pavement, and now he rushed down to greet me. His face was red as though he had been crying a great deal. He said:
“I thought you’d be coming about now. There’s coffee in the dining-room. Come along at once.”
“But how is the good gentleman?” said Mademoiselle.
Charley started and turned crimson at the sound of her voice. I introduced him as my brother, and Mademoiselle as Mademoiselle Wrex, a French teacher at our school. Charley mumbled something. I think he longed for Von Marlo’s presence, for Von Marlo never lost his head on any occasion whatever.
The next instant I did see his rather uncouth figure and kindly, plain face advancing through the hall to meet me.
“Now, I said you’d come; I knew you’d come without delaying one minute. How do you do. Miss Rachel?”
Mademoiselle looked at him and uttered a little cry.
“Why, Max!” she cried. “Max!”
Then she held out both her hands, and they were both engrossed with one another; they were doubtless old friends. Charley dragged me into the dining-room.