taken the sovereigns, but she would take the penny.  She heard, in imagination, on the counter, the ring of the copper.  “Don’t put yourself out any longer,” he would say, “for so bad a case.  You’ve done all there is to be done.  I thank and acquit and release you.  Our lives take us.  I don’t know much—­though I’ve really been interested—­about yours, but I suppose you’ve got one.  Mine at any rate will take me—­and where it will.  Heigh-ho!  Good-bye.”  And then once more, for the sweetest faintest flower of all:  “Only, I say—­see here!” She had framed the whole picture with a squareness that included also the image of how again she would decline to “see there,” decline, as she might say, to see anywhere, see anything.  Yet it befell that just in the fury of this escape she saw more than ever.

He came back one night with a rush, near the moment of their closing, and showed her a face so different and new, so upset and anxious, that almost anything seemed to look out of it but clear recognition.  He poked in a telegram very much as if the simple sense of pressure, the distress of extreme haste, had blurred the remembrance of where in particular he was.  But as she met his eyes a light came; it broke indeed on the spot into a positive conscious glare.  That made up for everything, since it was an instant proclamation of the celebrated “danger”; it seemed to pour things out in a flood.  “Oh yes, here it is—­it’s upon me at last!  Forget, for God’s sake, my having worried or bored you, and just help me, just save me, by getting this off without the loss of a second!” Something grave had clearly occurred, a crisis declared itself.  She recognised immediately the person to whom the telegram was addressed—­the Miss Dolman of Parade Lodge to whom Lady Bradeen had wired, at Dover, on the last occasion, and whom she had then, with her recollection of previous arrangements, fitted into a particular setting.  Miss Dolman had figured before and not figured since, but she was now the subject of an imperative appeal.  “Absolutely necessary to see you.  Take last train Victoria if you can catch it.  If not, earliest morning, and answer me direct either way.”

“Reply paid?” said the girl.  Mr. Buckton had just departed and the counter-clerk was at the sounder.  There was no other representative of the public, and she had never yet, as it seemed to her, not even in the street or in the Park, been so alone with him.

“Oh yes, reply paid, and as sharp as possible, please.”

She affixed the stamps in a flash.  “She’ll catch the train!” she then declared to him breathlessly, as if she could absolutely guarantee it.

“I don’t know—­I hope so.  It’s awfully important.  So kind of you.  Awfully sharp, please.”  It was wonderfully innocent now, his oblivion of all but his danger.  Anything else that had ever passed between them was utterly out of it.  Well, she had wanted him to be impersonal!