“It was the Southampton train, sir.  I saw the board on the carriage.”

That settled the question.  “You are a good and an honest girl,” I said, pulling out my purse; “and you came to this misfortune through trying—­too eagerly—­to help the young lady.  A ten-pound note is not overmuch as compensation for your accident.  Take it, and get well.  I should be sorry to think you lost a good place through your anxiety to help us.”

The rest of my way was plain sailing now.  I hurried on straight to Southampton.  There my first visit was to the office of the Castle line.  I went to the point at once.  Was there a Miss Wade among the passengers by the Dunottar Castle?

No; nobody of that name on the list.

Had any lady taken a passage at the last moment?

The clerk perpended.  Yes; a lady had come by the mail train from London, with no heavy baggage, and had gone on board direct, taking what cabin she could get.  A young lady in grey.  Quite unprepared.  Gave no name.  Called away in a hurry.

What sort of lady?

Youngish; good-looking; brown hair and eyes, the clerk thought; a sort of creamy skin; and a—­well, a mesmeric kind of glance that seemed to go right through you.

“That will do,” I answered, sure now of my quarry.  “To which port did she book?”

“To Cape Town.”

“Very well,” I said, promptly.  “You may reserve me a good berth in the next outgoing steamer.”

It was just like Hilda’s impulsive character to rush off in this way at a moment’s notice; and just like mine to follow her.  But it piqued me a little to think that, but for the accident of an accident, I might never have tracked her down.  If the letter had been posted in London as she intended, and not at Basingstoke, I might have sought in vain for her from then till Doomsday.

Ten days later, I was afloat on the Channel, bound for South Africa.

I always admired Hilda’s astonishing insight into character and motive; but I never admired it quite so profoundly as on the glorious day when we arrived at Cape Town.  I was standing on deck, looking out for the first time in my life on that tremendous view—­ the steep and massive bulk of Table Mountain,—­a mere lump of rock, dropped loose from the sky, with the long white town spread gleaming at its base, and the silver-tree plantations that cling to its lower slopes and merge by degrees into gardens and vineyards—­ when a messenger from the shore came up to me tentatively.

“Dr. Cumberledge?” he said, in an inquiring tone.

I nodded.  “That is my name.”

“I have a letter for you, sir.”

I took it, in great surprise.  Who on earth in Cape Town could have known I was coming?  I had not a friend to my knowledge in the colony.  I glanced at the envelope.  My wonder deepened.  That prescient brain!  It was Hilda’s handwriting.