He went straight to Charing Cross; he left the car in the yard and dashed in to inquire about trains; he searched a time-table; 12.59––3 o’clock––4.5 ... he looked up at the clock––three minutes past four now. Micky dashed across the big hall to a gate where a signboard said “Dover Express”; he had no ticket; he pushed by the protesting inspector; the guard was waving his flag; some one grabbed at Micky and missed as he flung himself breathless and panting into the last coach of the moving train.
CHAPTER XXVII
Micky sat for a few moments breathless and exhausted before he pulled himself together, and taking off his hat wiped his hot forehead.
The train was gathering speed; he let down the window with a run and looked out; the station was out of sight altogether; they were crossing the bridge under which the silent Thames flowed sluggishly.
A breath of cold air touched his hot face and he shivered suddenly and drew the window up once more.
Something had driven his thoughts back to his first meeting with Esther, to the cold silence of the night, and the hard desperation of her voice as she said––
“I didn’t mean to go home any more––I shouldn’t have ever gone home again if I hadn’t met you....”
If she got to Paris before he saw her she would feel like this again. Micky groaned.