“So near the fulfilment of his hopes, poor fellow,” I remarked.

“Yes,” concurred Isabel, “but do you know I almost wish he wasn’t coming.”

“Don’t tell him so, whatever you do,” I exclaimed.  “I know Dicky’s sensitive nature, and it is just as likely as not that he would take you at your word.  And I will not elope with you alone.”

I need not have been alarmed.  Isabel had no intention of reducing the party at the last moment.  I listened for protests and hesitations when they met, but all I heard was, “Have you got the bag?”

Dicky had the bag, the tickets, the places, everything.  He had already assumed, though only a husband of to-morrow, the imperative and responsible connection with Isabel’s arrangements.  He told her she was to sleep with her head toward the engine, that she was to drink nothing but soda-water at any of the stations, and that she must not, on any account, leave the carriage when we changed for Paris until he came for her.  It would be my business to see that these instructions were carried out.

“What shall I do,” I asked, “if she cries in the night?”

But Dicky was sweeping us toward the waiting-room, and did not hear me.  He placed us carefully in the seats nearest the main door, which opened upon the departure platform, full of people hurrying to and fro, and of the more leisurely movement of shunting trains.  The lamps were lighted, though twilight still hung about; the scene was pleasantly exciting.  I said to Isabel that I never thought I should enjoy an elopement so much.

“I shall enjoy settling down,” she replied thoughtfully.  “Dicky has promised me that all the china shall be hand-painted.”

“You won’t mind my leaving you for five seconds,” said Mr. Dod, suddenly exploring his breast-pocket; “the train doesn’t leave for a quarter of an hour yet, and I find I haven’t a smoke about me,” and he opened the door.

“Not more that five seconds then,” I said, for nothing is more trying to the nerves than to wait for a train which is due in a few minutes and a man who is buying cigars at the same time.

Dicky left the door open, and that was how I heard a strangely familiar voice, with an inflexion of enforced calm and repression, suddenly address him from behind it.

“Good evening, Dod!”

I did not shriek, or even grasp Isabel’s hand.  I simply got up and stood a little nearer the door.  But I have known few moments so electrical.

“My dear chap, how are you?” exclaimed Dicky.  “How are you?  Staying in Cologne?  I’m just off to Paris.”

I thought I heard a heavy sigh, but it was somewhat lost in the trundling of the porters’ trucks.

“Then,” said Arthur Page, for I had not been deceived, “it is as I supposed.”

“What did you suppose, old chap?” asked Dicky in a joyous and expansive tone.

“You do not go alone?”