"I understand...."
But for some moments she did not speak. He avoided looking at her.
The fiacre, rolling at top speed but smoothly on the broad avenues that encircle the ancient city, turned into the Avenue de Keyser, bringing into sight the Gare Centrale.
"You don't—k-know—" began the girl without warning, in a voice gusty with sobs.
"Steady on!" said Kirkwood gently. "I do know, but don't let's talk about it now. We'll be at the station in a minute, and I'll get out and see what's to be done about a train, if neither Mulready or Stryker are about. You stay in the carriage.... No!" He changed his mind suddenly. "I'll not risk losing you again. It's a risk we'll have to run in company."
"Please!" she agreed brokenly.
The fiacre slowed up and stopped.
"Are you all right, Miss Calendar?" Kirkwood asked.
The girl sat up, lifting her head proudly. "I am quite ready," she said, steadying her voice.
Kirkwood reconnoitered through the window, while the driver was descending.