hut
her eyes once or twice as though to relieve the strain which watching
and waiting put upon them, and then, quite suddenly, I saw that she
had found what she expected; I saw that her empty eyes were now
filled, that they held something without which they had faded out. In
a word, I saw her look fixedly, fiercely and certainly at something
beyond the lobby. Following the direction she gave me, I looked also.
There, assuredly, in the portico, square, smiling and assured of his
will, I saw Quidnunc stand, and his light eyes upon hers. For quite a
space of time, such as that in which you might count fifteen
deliberately, those two looked at each other. Messages, I am sure,
sped to and fro between them. His seemed to say, "Come, I have
answered you. Now do you answer me." Hers cried her hurt, "Ah, but
what can I do?" His, with their cool mastery of time and occasion,
"You must do as I bid you. There's no other way." Hers pleaded, "Give
me time," and his told her sternly, "I am master of time--since I made
it." The throng of waiting people began to surge toward the door; out
there in the night link-boys yelled great names. I heard "Lord
Richborough's carriage," and saw Lady Emily clap her hand to her side.
I saw her reach the portico and stand there hastily covering her head
with a black scarf; I saw her sway alone there. I saw her party go
down the steps. The next moment Quidnunc flashed to her side. He said
nothing, he did not touch her. He simply looked at her--intently,
smiling, self-possessed, a master. Her face was averted; I could see
her tremble; she bowed her head. Another carriage was announced--the
Richborough coach then was gone. I saw Quidnunc now put his hand upon
her arm; she turned him her face, a faint and tender smile, very
beautiful and touching, met his own. He drew her with him out of the
press and into the burning dark. London never saw her again.

I don't attempt to explain what is to me inexplicable. Was my
policeman right when he called Quidnunc a herald angel? Is there any
substance behind the surmise that the ancient gods still sway the
souls and bodies of men? Was Quidnunc, that swift, remorseless,
smiling messenger, that god of the winged feet? The Argeiphont? Who
can answer these things? All I have to tell you by way of an epilogue
is this.

A curate of my acquaintance, a curate of St. Peter's, Eaton Square,
some few years after these events, took his holiday in Greece. He
went out as one o