"And after we are married?" I asked, trembling.
"I shall give myself up at once to the police in Edinburgh."
I clung to him wistfully. My heart half urged me to urge him to escape. But I knew that was wrong. "Give yourself up, then," I said, sobbing. "It is a brave man's place. You must stand your trial: and, come what will, I will strive to bear it with you."
"I knew you would," he cried. "I was not mistaken in you."
We embraced again, just once. It was little enough after those years of waiting.
"Now, come!" he cried. "Let us go."
I drew back. "Not with you, dearest," I whispered. "Not in the Maharajah's carriage. You must start by yourself. I will follow you at once, to Euston, in a hansom."
He saw I was right. It would avoid suspicion, and it would prevent more scandal. He withdrew without a word. "We meet," I said, "at ten, at Euston."
I did not even wait to wash the tears from my eyes. All red as they were, I put on my hat and my little brown travelling jacket. I don't think I so much as glanced once at the glass. The seconds were precious. I saw the Maharajah drive away, with Harold in the dickey, arms crossed, imperturbable, Orientally silent. He looked the very counterpart of the Rajput by his side. Then I descended the stairs and walked out boldly. As I passed through the hall, the servants and the visitors stared at me and whispered. They spoke with nods and liftings of the eyebrows. I was aware that that morning I had achieved notoriety.
At Piccadilly Circus, I jumped of a sudden into a passing hansom. "Euston!" I cried, as I mounted the step. "Drive quick! I have no time to spare." And, as the man drove off, I saw, by a convulsive dart of someone across the road, that I had given the slip to a disappointed reporter.