Perhaps that was in some degree owing to the weather, which was bad, even for London. There was a delightful fog, which, for some inscrutable reason, was seemingly not at all affected by a cutting east wind; and a filthy rain. I had on an overcoat; but was conscious that I was not getting drier as the night wore on. What I was waiting for I could not have told myself, until, towards midnight, a hansom dashed into the street, in which, as it passed, I saw the face of Miss Adair. I was after it like a flash, catching it just as it reached the door of No. 22.
“Miss Adair!” I cried, as the lady was preparing to descend into the mud and rain.
“Good gracious, Mr. Ferguson, is that you? Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I—I thought I’d call and inquire how—how Miss Moore was getting on.”
“Well, and have you called?”
“No, I—I thought I’d wait till you came home from the theatre and—and ask you.”
From her post of vantage in the cab Miss Adair looked me up and down, perceiving that I was neither so well groomed nor so dry as I might have been.
“And, pray, how long have you been waiting for me to come home from the theatre?”
“Oh, some—some few minutes.”
“A good few minutes, I should imagine. And where have you been waiting?”