That was the plan that had instantly shot into his head. “But—” he pleaded.
“You must not!”
He hesitated.
A look from those blue eyes, straight into his own. “You will not. I trust you.”
He bowed his head. “I shall not.”
“Good-bye—and thank you,” said she.
He gripped her hand. “Good-bye,” he said. And he gathered in his last look of her.
But suddenly, when he thought he had lost her, her hand slipped through his arm—slipped through it as with wifely habit—and she was saying to him in a hurried whisper:
“Don’t look back. That gendarme captain is working this way. I think he’s not wholly satisfied. I must at least leave with you. Come.”
Again Drexel did not blink. Instantly he was leading her along the platform, arm in arm, with the easy manner of four or five married years. In the open square before the station scores of bearded drivers, swathed in blankets till they looked like bulky mummies, were clamorously shouting, “Isvochtchik! Isvochtchik!” One of these Drexel signalled. He was helping her into the little sleigh when he saw her give a calm, steady look to some one behind him. Turning, he saw the captain, for whom a sleigh was drawing up to the curb. Drexel gave him a curt nod, stepped into the foot-high sleigh and drew the fur robe about them. The driver cracked his whip and the horse sprang away.