This girl’s tempestuous irruption into his life had supplied flame for George.  Her bright eyes, looking into his, had touched off the spiritual trinitrotoluol which he had been storing up for so long.  Up in the air in a million pieces had gone the prudence and self-restraint of a lifetime.  And here he was, as desperately in love as any troubadour of the Middle Ages.

It was not till he had finished shaving and was testing the temperature of his bath with a shrinking toe that the realization came over him in a wave that, though he might be in love, the fairway of love was dotted with more bunkers than any golf course he had ever played on in his life.  In the first place, he did not know the girl’s name.  In the second place, it seemed practically impossible that he would ever see her again.  Even in the midst of his optimism George could not deny that these facts might reasonably be considered in the nature of obstacles.  He went back into his bedroom, and sat on the bed.  This thing wanted thinking over.

He was not depressed—­only a little thoughtful.  His faith in his luck sustained him.  He was, he realized, in the position of a man who has made a supreme drive from the tee, and finds his ball near the green but in a cuppy lie.  He had gained much; it now remained for him to push his success to the happy conclusion.  The driver of Luck must be replaced by the spoon—­or, possibly, the niblick—­of Ingenuity.  To fail now, to allow this girl to pass out of his life merely because he did not know who she was or where she was, would stamp him a feeble adventurer.  A fellow could not expect Luck to do everything for him.  He must supplement its assistance with his own efforts.

What had he to go on?  Well, nothing much, if it came to that, except the knowledge that she lived some two hours by train out of London, and that her journey started from Waterloo Station.  What would Sherlock Holmes have done?  Concentrated thought supplied no answer to the question; and it was at this point that the cheery optimism with which he had begun the day left George and gave place to a grey gloom.  A dreadful phrase, haunting in its pathos, crept into his mind.  “Ships that pass in the night!” It might easily turn out that way.  Indeed, thinking over the affair in all its aspects as he dried himself after his tub, George could not see how it could possibly turn out any other way.

He dressed moodily, and left the room to go down to breakfast.  Breakfast would at least alleviate this sinking feeling which was unmanning him.  And he could think more briskly after a cup or two of coffee.

He opened the door.  On a mat outside lay a letter.

The handwriting was feminine.  It was also in pencil, and strange to him.  He opened the envelope.

“Dear Mr. Bevan” (it began).

With a sudden leap of the heart he looked at the signature.

The letter was signed “The Girl in the Cab.”