"And I trust your promise," returned Glynn. "On my part I promise not to make any attempt to track you until I have received your letter, or rather until I have seen you."
There was a moment's silence, then Elsie, who seemed to recover herself a little, said softly, "Then, good-night!"
"I cannot part with you yet," cried Glynn, passionately; "I cannot bear to let you go alone. Tell me, did you recognize me in the omnibus?"
"Not all at once; a little while after I had got in. At first, for some time, I thought you did not know me—I hoped you did not."
"I knew you at the door of the hotel, and followed you."
She started. "I must go now, I have stayed too long. Call a cab for me, and tell the driver to go to the Great Northern Station. I will direct him after."
"I cannot bear to let you go alone."
"You must!" impressively. "I am braver than I used to be."
"At least hold my arm till we find a cab," said Glynn, pressing hers to his side, as they turned back to the thoroughfare from which the street led. Elsie submitted to his guidance silently. Glynn's heart beat strongly with mixed emotions. The rapture of meeting her was great—the fear of losing her still greater. His promise forbade his following her, and he seemed as far from solving the mystery of her disappearance as ever. She was moved at the mention of her father, yet not in the way he expected; she had evidently suffered. Was he culpably weak in letting her go? But he had no choice. He could not resist her tears, her distress.
Soon, too soon, they found a cab. Glynn scrutinized the driver; he did not look like a ruffian. With an effort he subdued his reluctance to part with her, and assisted her into the conveyance, remembering with a pang how he had handed her into the carriage after the ball and sent her forth to—he could not tell what wretchedness and wrong.