“Do you think she could get a cab for us?”
“I am afraid not. There is no cab-stand anywhere near here. But I think I could walk, unless the fog is too thick. Shall we go and see what it is like?”
“I will go,” said I, rising. But she clung to my arm. “You are not to go alone,” she said, in sudden alarm. “He may be there still.”
I thought it best to humour her, and accordingly helped her to rise. For a few moments she seemed rather unsteady on her feet, but soon she was able to walk, supported by my arm, to the studio door, which I opened, and through which wreaths of vapour drifted in. But the fog was perceptibly thinner; and even as I was looking across the road at the now faintly visible houses, two spots of dull yellow light appeared up the road, and my ear caught the muffled sound of wheels. Gradually the lights grew brighter, and at length there stole out of the fog the shadowy form of a cab with a man leading the horse at a slow walk. Here seemed a chance of escape from our dilemma.
“Go in and shut the door while I speak to the cabman,” said I. “He may be able to take us. I shall give four knocks when I come back.”
She was unwilling to let me go, but I gently pushed her in and shut the door, and then advanced to meet the cab. A few words set my anxieties at rest, for it appeared that the cabman had to set down a fare a little way along the street, and was very willing to take a return fare, on suitable terms. As any terms would have been suitable to me under the circumstances the cabman was able to make a good bargain, and we parted with mutual satisfaction and a cordial au revoir. Then I steered back along the fence to the studio door, on which I struck four distinct knocks and announced myself vocally by name. Immediately, the door opened, and a hand drew me in by the sleeve.
“I am so glad you have come back,” she whispered. “It was horrid to be alone in the lobby even for a few minutes. What did the cabman say?”
I told her the joyful tidings, and we at once made ready for our departure. In a minute or two the welcome glare of the cab-lamps reappeared, and when I had locked up the studio and pocketed the key, I helped her into the rather ramshackle vehicle.
I don’t mind admitting that the cabman’s charges were extortionate; but I grudged him never a penny. It was probably the slowest journey that I had ever made, but yet the funereal pace was all too swift. Half-ashamed as I was to admit it to myself, this horrible adventure was bearing sweet fruit to me in the unquestioned intimacy that had been born in the troubled hour. Little enough was said; but I sat happily by her side, holding her uninjured hand in mine (on the pretence of keeping it warm), blissfully conscious that our sympathy and friendship had grown to something sweeter and more precious.
“What are we to say to Arabella?” I asked. “I suppose she will have to be told?”