Fayre did not dare to think of Cynthia, waiting, torn between hope and fear, through the long hours in the grey old house where she and Miss Allen lodged. He wished with all his heart that it had not fallen to him to break the news to her.
He stopped his cab at the corner of the street and walked the last hundred yards to the house. At least he could save the girl the inevitable rush to the window at the sound of wheels and the moments of suspense while he entered the house and mounted the stairs. As it happened, he found the front door open and reached the sitting-room before she realized his presence in the house.
She sprang to her feet as he entered, and Miss Allen instinctively moved to her side.
His face must have given him away for, before he opened his lips, she knew.
“Guilty!” she gasped.
He threw out his hands in a gesture of utter helplessness.
“It went against him,” he said, hardly recognizing his own voice.
With a little moan of anguish Cynthia turned blindly to the haven of Miss Allen’s arms. She did not cry and, for a moment, he was afraid she had fainted, then, to his relief, Miss Allen led her gently from the room.
He stood by the window looking out into the grey, dingy street, waiting for her return. It was some time before Miss Allen rejoined him.
“How is she?” he asked eagerly.