"You seem to be perfectly sure that nothing's going to happen at King's Cross."
"No, I'm not," she said. "The police are not fools — that Scotland Yard man didn't believe half I said — but they're just human. All the same, I'm not going to give you that bit paper until the train's going."
"I wish I had that revolver now!" he said.
"I'm glad you haven't. You've made a big enough fool of yourself already.
"I wouldn't use it. It would just give me courage."
"For goodness' sake, be sensible, Jerry. Don't do anything silly and spoil things."
They fell to silence again, the woman sitting upright and alert, the man shrunk in the corner, almost invisible. Into the west of London they went like that, through the dark squares north of Oxford Street, out into the Euston Road and with a sharp left-handed turn into King's Cross. The moment had come.
"You pay the taxi and I'll get the ticket," she said.
As Lamont paid the taxi-man the shadow of his turned-down hat hid his face, so that his retreating back was all that the incurious gaze of the driver noted. A porter came and took his things from him, and he surrendered them willingly. Now that the time had come, his «nerves» had gone. It was neck or nothing, and he could afford to play the part well. When the woman joined him from the booking-office, the change in him was evident in the approbation on her cold face. Together they went on to the platform and followed the porter down it, looking for a corner seat. They made a sufficiently convincing picture — the man with the rug and the golf-bag and the wraps, and the woman in attendance with the man's extra coat.
The porter dived into a corridor and came out again saying, "Got you a corner, sir. Probably have the side to yourself all the way. It's quiet tonight."