"Right, sir. Kentish Town Junction?"
"The station, to catch the 12:30."
The carriage door was opened and closed. Then the bitter weeping from the upper room came out to them in the night.
"Poor girl! whatever ails her? I seem to remember her voice," said Greta.
"We can't wait," Paul answered.
CHAPTER IX.
The clocks of London were striking one when Paul and Greta descended the steps in front of St. Pancras Station. The night was dark and bitterly cold. Dense fog hung in the air, and an unaccustomed silence brooded over the city. A solitary four-wheeled cab stood in the open square. The driver was inside, huddled up in his great-coat, and asleep. A porter awakened him, and he made way for Greta and Paul. He took his apron from the back of his horse, wrapped it about his waist, and snuffed the wicks of his lamps—they burned low and red, and crackled in the damp atmosphere.
"What hotel, sir?"
"The convent, Westminster."