Dale ground his
teeth, shook his fist at the lighted windows, and thought. "If he does
not go to-morrow--I can't wait. My self-control will be exhausted, and
I shall certainly do something fullish."
But Mr. Barradine went home that Saturday. Between ten and eleven in
the morning the brougham stood at the door, a four-wheeled cab was
fetched and loaded with luggage, and the two vehicles drove off round
the corner southward on their way to Waterloo. And Dale felt his
spirits lightening and a fierce gaiety filling his breast. The time
of inaction was nearly over; this hateful sitting down under one's
wrongs would not last long now; soon he would be doing something. He
took quite a pleasant walk through Chelsea, and over the river to
Lambeth, where, after a snack of lunch, he read the newspapers in a
Public Library. The Library was a quiet, convenient resort; and
yesterday he had written a letter there, to Mr. Ridgett at Rodchurch
Post Office--not because he really had anything to communicate, but
because it seemed necessary, or at least wise, to send off a letter
from London.
He enjoyed a good night's rest, and lay in bed till late on Sunday
afternoon. He intended to travel by the mail train--the train that
left Waterloo at ten-fifteen, and went through the night dropping
post-bags all the way down the line; and it was extremely improbable
that he would meet any Rodchurch friends in this train, but he
understood that the dangerous part of his proceedings would begin when
he got to Waterloo, and he was a little worried, even muddled, as to
how and where to change his clothes--or rather to put on that canvas
suit over his ordinary clothes.
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