She had an unobtrusive little chatelaine at her side, and from the bunch of implements, scissors, penknife, thimble, she selected a small whistle. Then she pulled back one of the cream-white curtains, opened the window, and whistled loud and shrill into the fog. Two minutes afterwards there came a small treble voice out of the darkness.
“What is it, Miss Newton?”
“Who’s that?”
“Tommy Meadows.”
“All right, Tommy. Do you think you could find a hansom without getting yourself run over?”
“Rather! Do you want it bringed to your door, miss?”
“If you please, Tommy.”
“I’m off,” cried the shrill voice, and in less than ten minutes a two-wheeler rattled along the street, and drew up sharply at Tommy’s treble command, with Tommy himself seated inside, enjoying the drive and the uncertainty of the driver.
His spirits were still further exalted by the gift of sixpence from Theodore as he stepped into the cab, to be taken back to the Temple at a foot pace.
Even that sitting-room of his, which he had taken pains to make comfortable and home-like, had a gloomy look after that bright room in Lambeth, with its terra-cotta walls and cream-coloured curtains, its gaily-bound books and vivid Vallauris vases perched in every available corner. He was more interested in that quaint interior, and in the woman who had created it, than he had been in any one except that one woman who filled the chief place in all his thoughts. The Vicar of Kettisford had not over-estimated Sarah Newton’s power of fascination.