“Why do you leave me alone?” she pouted. “How can I spend a whole week wandering about without a companion?”
“Don’t you see, Tibbie, that it is very necessary that I should show up to your mother and Jack in order to still pretend to make an effort to find traces of you?” I asked.
“Ah! yes,” she sighed. “I suppose you are right. You do all you can in my interests, so I ought not to complain.”
“I am glad you are convinced that my return to London is with the object of averting suspicion,” I said. “Go up to Newcastle and escape these enemies of yours—whoever they are. Travel constantly if possible. You have money. If not I can give you some.”
“Thanks—I have plenty,” was her reply; and then she reluctantly commenced packing her trunk preparatory to her hurried departure.
And at noon we had grasped hands on the platform and I had seen her into a third-class compartment of the express bound for Newcastle.
“Au revoir,” she said, bending to me from the carriage window. “Remember, next Tuesday in Carlisle. You are my friend—promise you will not desert me.”
“Next Tuesday,” I repeated, lifting my cloth cap. “I promise. Till then, adieu.”
And she smiled sadly as the express glided out of the station.
Half an hour later I was on my way to London again, and a little after five o’clock entered the offices of the Daily Telegraph and handed in a cipher advertisement, which read,—