At Worthing he found a single cab, with a driver, elderly, garrulous. He sat sideways on the box in order to point out local features of interest; the reins loose in his hands, throwing remarks back to McTaggart.
"Town 'All!" he waved his whip, a worn-out stump without a lash, toward that imposing structure. "The Picture Palace!—'Old up, me lass!" The ancient mare between the shafts responded coquettishly to the call, aware of the subtle compliment, tossing her venerable head.
"The Pier, sir—as was washed in 'alf in the big gale—a crool business. Cost the Corporation no end—This 'ere's the Promenade..."
McTaggart woke from his dream of Jill to gaze at the wide stretch of water.
The beach, white under the moon, shelved down to the smooth sand, dove-grey and broken by rocks low and black, where silver pools lay fringed with sea weed and emerald samphire.
It crept out, like an endless scroll, till it touched the dark line of sea and was met by a single crested wave that broke upon it, noiselessly.
"The tide is very low to-night?" McTaggart spoke at last to the driver.
"Yessir——" the man followed his gaze. "It 'ud be now just on the turn. Woodford Road, I think you said?"
"Yes. There's no number—it's called 'Rose Mount'!"
"Right, sir—I know the 'ouse." They turned abruptly from the sea, up a narrow road in the old town, passed a Terrace and came to a gate, open, that showed a curving alley between hedges, neatly clipped, of Euonymus, thick with dust.