Fortunately he had the carriage to himself, but it was a third-class compartment, and not a corridor carriage. He cursed his luck here; if there had been a corridor he could have gone the length of the train and seen if Esther were on it. As it was, he would have to wait till they reached Dover, and even then perhaps he would never find her.
He tried to calm himself with the conviction that everything would be all right, but in his heart he was despairing; if he found Esther and brought her back she would hate him for the rest of his life.
What had happened to make her rush off like this? He could not imagine. She had seemed so happy only that morning. What could account for the tragedy that seemed to breathe in every word of that little note she had left for June?
He took it from his pocket and read it again. It gave no hint of what had prompted this sudden flight. He wrote out a couple of telegrams to dispatch from Dover––one for June, and another for Driver.
He wished he had got Driver with him. There was a sort of security in the man’s stolidness.
He realised that he was without luggage, and that he had not much money. Supposing he had to go on to Paris, what the dickens was he going to do?
When the train ran into Dover he got to his feet with a sigh of relief. Quickly as he was out of the train a great many passengers had left it before him. He started at a run down the platform. He stared at every woman he met, hoping it would be Esther. The crowd was getting thick; he had to push his way unceremoniously past people; porters with luggage trucks jostled him; he began to lose his temper––he was just answering with great heat a man who had cynically asked “who he was shoving,” when some one touched his arm.
“Micky....”
For a moment Micky’s heart beat up in his throat; he turned quickly and found himself looking down into the brown eyes of Marie Deland.