I was aware of one fact only, that I loved Elma with all
my soul, even though I knew not whom she really was--or her strange life
story. Her sweet face, with those soft, brown eyes, so tender and
intense, stood out ever before me, sleeping or waking. Each moment as
the express rushed south increased the distance between us, yet was I
not on my way back to England with a clear and distinct purpose? I
snatched at any clue, however small, with desperate eagerness, as a
drowning man clutches at a straw.
The spy from Abo had seen me on the railway platform on my departure
from Petersburg. He had overheard me buy a ticket for London, and
previous to stepping into the train I had smiled at him in glad triumph.
My journey was too long a one for him to follow, and I knew that I had
at last outwitted him. He had expected to see Elma with me, no doubt,
and his disappointment was plainly marked. But of Woodroffe I had
neither seen nor heard anything.
* * * * *
It was a cold but dry November night in London, and I sat dining with
Jack Durnford at a small table in the big, well-lit room of the Junior
United Service Club.
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