“When is the next train to Calais?” she asked.
“At nine o’clock to-night, miss.”
“Oh, God!” she wailed under her breath.
Dale’s voice grew even more sympathetic.
“Was you a-thinking of going to him, miss?” he asked.
“Would that I could fly there,” she moaned.
He scratched the back of his ear, for it was by such means that Dale sought inspiration.
“Dash it all!” he cried. “I wish I had seen you half an hour earlier. There is a train that leaves Charing Cross at twenty minutes past two. It goes by way of Folkestone and Boulogne, and from Boulogne one can get easy to Calais. Anyhow, what’s the use of talkin’—it is too late.”
Cynthia glanced at her watch. It was just twenty-five minutes to three.
“How far is Folkestone?” was the immediate demand generated by her practical American brain.