He went over to the horse himself, and took hold of his bridle, turned him round, and walked him in like a lamb. Then, as the porters clapped shut the side of the horse-box, he waited to ask whose hunters were going down. Susan, lingering a little way apart, saw a big man with a cigar in his mouth spin round and seize him. Two or three more shot out of the throng and hurled themselves upon him, wringing his hand.
"It's Barnaby himself," they shouted. "Barnaby himself!"
They crowded him up the platform, a noisy escort, hiding their feelings under boisterous chaff; Meltonians, old acquaintances.... They passed by Susan, gossiping hard.
All at once Barnaby broke loose from them, turning back. "Great Joseph!" he said. "I've lost my wife!"
What if he had? What if she had cut the tangle, had slipped when his back was turned into one of these moving trains, and passed out of his life, out of the bustle into the throbbing darkness, like a match that had been lit and extinguished, leaving no trace?
She watched him hurrying back, looking for her; saw his quick glance along a glimmering line of carriages passing him on his left, and guessed his apprehension. Soon he was bearing down on her, charging through the press, and had pulled her hand through his arm.
"It was too bad, wasn't it?" he said. "I'm awfully sorry,—Susan."
There was a real relief in his voice. She felt it, wondering. Was he so glad to find her still his prisoner, his accomplice?
"Did you think," she said, and in her own voice laughter struggled with a strange inclination to tears,—"that I had run away?"
"Come on," he said cheerfully, not replying. "Hold on to me. Those chaps are looking at us."