All his belongings were in the small brown paper parcel on the rack above him. At the station he had bought a packet of cigarettes, and as he smoked he gazed reflectively out of the carriage window. The train was an express, but in his mood it seemed to be the slowest in the world.
What would Marigold think of his long absence? He had once or twice thought of telegraphing to her from Mogador, or from Brest, where they had touched, but he had deemed it best to return to her suddenly and then wreak vengeance upon those who had so cleverly plotted to inveigle him to that flat on that never-to-be-forgotten night.
Waterloo—the new station with its bustle and hurry! He sprang from the carriage and took the next train back to Wimbledon and then on to Wimbledon Park.
At last he halted before the neat little villa with its white painted balcony, and knocked.
Marigold's sister opened the door.
"Good heavens!" she gasped. "Mr. Durrant, is it really you?"
"It is! I'm back again. Where is Marigold?"
"Come in," she said. "I-I-hardly know what to say. Marigold is—she's not very well."
And then in a few brief words as he stood in the narrow hall she told him of his beloved's sudden illness.
A second later he dashed upstairs, and then in silence, treading, noiselessly, he advanced to the bedside of the delirious girl, who with flushed face was calling for "her Gerald."