Here, on the quiet pavement shadowed by the College of Surgeons, she
lingered in expectancy. Ten was striking, but she looked in vain for
the figure she would recognize--that of a well-dressed, middle-aged
man, with a white silk comforter about his neck, and drawn up so as
to hide his mouth. Twice she had met him here, and on each occasion
he was waiting for her when she arrived. Five minutes passed--ten
minutes. She grew very impatient and, as a necessary consequence,
very angry. To avoid unpleasant attention from the few people who
walked by, she had to pace backwards and forwards as if going about
her business. When the clocks chimed the first quarter Polly was in
a turmoil of anger, blended with disappointment and apprehension.
She could not have made a mistake. The message she had received was
"W. S. T.," which meant "Wednesday same time." Some accident must
have interfered. At twenty minutes past ten she had lost all hope.
She must go home, and wait for a possible communication on the
morrow.
Swinging her skirts, clenching her fists, and talking silently at a
great rate, she walked in the direction of Chancery Lane.
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