The clang of trains, the feathery whirr of motors, the echo of footsteps, the immense, indefinable breathing vibration of the iron monster, drowsing on its rock between three rivers and the sea, ceases utterly. And a vast stillness reigns, mournful, ominous, unutterably sad.
Palla looked down into the empty street. The dark 249 chill of it seemed to rise and touch her; and she shivered unconsciously and turned back into the lighted room.
It was two o’clock. Her eyes were heavy, her heart heavier. Why should everything suddenly happen to her in that way? Where had Jim gone when he left her? And who was it answered the telephone at his house when she had called up and asked to speak to him? It was a woman’s voice––a maid, no doubt––yet, for an instant, she had fancied that the voice resembled his mother’s.
But it couldn’t have been, for Palla had given her name, and Mrs. Shotwell would have spoken to her––unless––perhaps his mother––disapproved of something––of her calling Jim at such an hour.... Or of something ... perhaps of their friendship ... of herself, perhaps–––
She heard the clock strike and looked across at the mantel.
What was Ilse doing at half-past two in the morning? Where could she be?
Palla involuntarily turned her head and looked at the photograph. Of course Ilse was safe with a man like John Estridge.... That is to say ...
Without warning, her face grew hot and the crimson tide mounted to the roots of her hair, dyeing throat and temples.
A sort of stunning reaction followed as the tide ebbed; she found herself stupidly repeating the word “safe,” as though to interpret what it meant.