"Dumb lies the world; the wild-yelling world with all its madness is behind thee!"
I started for England next evening, and travelled right through. I sent one wire to Jim from Berlin and another from Flushing,--where I found a reply from him waiting me. "All well, meeting you."
That "all well" reassured me, for now that I had leisure to think, my conscience told me how badly I'd treated him and Mary. It's true that before I started from London with Mishka I wrote saying that I was off on secret service and they must not expect to hear from me for a time, but I should be all right. That was to smooth Mary down, for I knew what she was,--dear little soul,--and I didn't want her to be fretting about me. If she once got any notion of my real destination, she'd have fretted herself into a fever. But if she hadn't guessed at the truth, I might be able to evade telling her anything at all; perhaps I might pitch a yarn about having been to Tibet, or Korea, for she would certainly want to know something of the reason for my changed appearance. I scarcely recognized myself when I looked at my reflection in the bedroom mirror at Berlin. A haggard, unkempt ruffian, gray-haired, and with hollow eyes staring out of a white face, disfigured by a half-healed cut across the forehead. I certainly was a miserable looking object, even when I'd had my hair cut and my beard shaved, since I no longer needed it as a disguise. Mary had always disliked that beard, but I doubted if she'd know me, even without it.
I landed at Queensboro' on a typical English November afternoon; raw and dark, with a drizzle falling that threatened every moment to thicken into a regular fog. There were very few passengers, and I thought at first I was going to have the compartment to myself; but, at the last moment, a man got in whom I recognized at once as Lord Southbourne. I hadn't seen him on the boat; doubtless he'd secured a private stateroom. He just glanced at me casually,--I had my fur cap well pulled down,--settled himself in his corner, and started reading a London paper,--one of his own among them. He'd brought a sheaf of them in with him; though I'd contented myself with _The Courier_. It was pleasant to see the familiar rag once more. I hadn't set eyes on a copy since I left England.