And while she was picturing this marvel among men standing by the steamer’s side in the night, in communion with the clear and heavy stars, holding in his adventurous grasp the secret of a world’s peace, Alexis Triona was speeding northwards, sitting upright in a third-class carriage, to Newcastle-on-Tyne. And at Newcastle he expected no ship to take him to Finland. Lucky if he found a cab in the early morning to take him to his destination three miles away.
For the telegram which he had torn to pieces had not come from the War Office. It was not written in Russian. It was in good, plain, curt English:
“Mother dying. Come at once.”
CHAPTER XIII
A TAXICAB took him in dreary rain through the squalor of Tyneside, now following the dismal tram lines, now cutting through mean streets, until they reached a row of low, bow-windows agglutinated little villas with handkerchief of garden separating them from the road. At No. 17 he dismissed the cab and swung wide the flimsy gate. Before he could enter, the house door opened and a woman appeared, worn and elderly, in a cheap, soiled wrapper.
“I suppose that’s you, John. I shouldn’t have recognized you.”
She spoke with a harsh, northern accent, and her face betrayed little emotion.
“You’re Ellen,” said he.
“Aye. I’m Ellen. You didn’t think I was Jane?”
She led the way into a narrow passage and then into the diminutive parlour.