Piccadilly Circus, the centre of the night-life of London, is unique, with its jostling crowds on pleasure bent, its congestion of traffic, its myriad lights, its flashing, illuminated signs, and the bright façade of the Criterion on the one side and the Pavilion on the other. Surely one sees the lure of London there more than at any other spot in the whole of our great metropolis.
Passing the Criterion and turning into the Haymarket, I halted for a moment on the kerb, and for the first time in my life, perhaps, gazed philosophically upon the frantic, hurrying panorama of human life passing before my eyes.
From where I stood I could see into the well-lit station entrance with the row to the telephone boxes, at the end of which sat the smart young operator, who was getting numbers and collecting fees. All the boxes were engaged, and several persons were waiting, but in vain my eyes searched for a lady in black wearing mimosa.
The winter wind was bitterly cold, and as I was without an overcoat it cut through my thin, shabby clothes, causing me to shiver. Nevertheless, I kept my watchful vigil. By a neighbouring clock I could see that it was already five minutes past the hour of the appointment. Still, I waited in eager expectation of her coming.
The only other person who seemed to loiter there was a thin, shivering Oriental, who bore some rugs upon his shoulder—a hawker of shawls.
Past me there went men and women of every grade and every station. Boys were crying "Extrur spe-shull," and evil-looking loafers, those foreign scoundrels who infest the West End, lurked about, sometimes casting a suspicious glance at me, with the thought, perhaps, that I might be a detective.
Ah! the phantasmagora of life outside the Piccadilly Tube at eight o'clock in the evening is indeed a strangely complex one. The world of London has then ceased to work and has given itself over to pleasure, and, alas! in so many cases, to evil.
In patience I waited. The moments seemed hours, for in my suspense I was dubious whether, after all, she would appear. Perhaps she already knew, by some secret means, of Sir Digby's flight, and if so, she would not keep the appointment.
I strolled up and down the pavement, for a policeman, noticing me hanging about, had gruffly ordered me to "Move on!" He, perhaps, suspected me of "loitering for the purpose of committing a felony."
Everywhere my eager eyes searched to catch sight of some person in black wearing a spray of yellow blossom, but among that hurrying crowd there was not one woman, young or old, wearing that flower so reminiscent of the Riviera.