“Is that the station?” said Fulk. “Then here we part. Good-by.”
“Part? What do you mean?”
“I mean this: that I owe you my liberty—I shall repay you. I shall stay here and watch for your Violet—I am sure she is here.”
It was useless arguing with him: Fulk was determined.
“I shall easily hide in this great city,” he said. “We shall be on the watch in two places at once—you at Belthrop and World’s End, and I here. Make haste. By-the-by, can you lend me a pound or two? I have no money with me.”
Aymer insisted upon dividing the sixty-five pounds he had left. Then they shook hands.
“Stay,” said Fulk, “our rendezvous?—Where shall we meet again? Quick!—your train.”
“At The Place, World’s End,” said Aymer at a venture, and with one more rapid handshake ran off. He caught his train, and by one in the morning was in London.
Poor Fulk, wandering he hardly knew where on the look out for a quiet inn, came suddenly into a crowded street, and amidst a number of carriages evidently waiting. He looked up—it was some theatre or other. There was a large poster announcing that the famous singer Mademoiselle F—o would perform that evening in the Sternhold Hall, and as he read, he heard a loud encore which reached even to the street.
“I remember her,” he thought. “I saw her at Vienna the year before I was captured. They said she was this Marese Baskette’s mistress—a splendid creature. I’ve half a mind—I haven’t heard a song for so long—”