Hope revived in her as at length she left the train.  Anything was better than the awful inactivity of that well-nigh interminable journey.  There was yet a chance—­a slender one—­that by an early start or possibly travelling by a night train she and Guy might yet be back at Blue Hill Farm by the following evening in time to meet Burke on his return.

Yes, the chance was there, and still she could not think that all this desperate effort of hers could be doomed to failure.  If she could only find Guy quickly—­oh, quickly!  She almost ran out of the station in her haste.

She turned her steps instinctively towards the hotel in which she had stayed for her marriage, It was not far from the station, and it was the first place that occurred to her.  The town was full of people, men for the most part, men it seemed to her, of all nationalities and colours.  She heard Dutch and broken English all around her.

She went through the crowds, shrinking a little now and then from any especially coarse type, nervously intent upon avoiding contact with any.  She found the hotel without difficulty, but when she found it she checked her progress for the first time.  For she was afraid to enter.

The evening was drawing on.  She felt the welcome chill of it on her burning face, and it kept her from yielding to the faintness that oppressed her.  But still she could not enter, till a great, square-built Boer lounging near the doorway came up to her and looked into her eyes with an evil leer.

Then she summoned her strength, drew herself up, and passed him with open disgust.

She had to push her way through a crowd of men idling in the entrance, and one or two accosted her, but she went by them in stony unresponsiveness.

At the little office at the end she found a girl, sandy-haired and sandy-eyed, who looked up for a moment from a great book in front of her, and before she could speak, said briskly, “There’s no more accommodation here.  The place is full to overflowing.  Better try at the Good Hope over the way.”

She had returned to her occupation before the words were well uttered, but Sylvia stood motionless, a little giddy, leaning against the woodwork for support.

“I only want to know,” she said, after a moment, speaking with an effort in a voice that sounded oddly muffled even to herself, “if Mr. Ranger is here.”

“Who?” The girl looked up sharply.  “Hullo!” she said.  “What’s the matter?”

“If Mr. Ranger—­Mr. Ranger—­is here,” Sylvia repeated through a curious mist that had gathered unaccountably around her.

The girl got up and came to her.  “Yes, he’s here, I believe, or will be presently.  He’s engaged a room anyhow.  I didn’t see him myself.  Look here, you’d better come and sit down a minute.  I seem to remember you.  You’re Mrs. Ranger, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sylvia.

She was past explanation just then, and that simple affirmative seemed her only course.  She leaned thankfully upon the supporting arm, fighting blindly to retain her senses.