Claire stopped him with an imperious hand.
“That’s enough! It was there: I saw it. I counted the pieces before the custom-house officer came along. I noticed it especially. Someone must have taken it by mistake.”
The porter shook his head darkly.
“On purpose, more like! Funny people crosses by this route. Funny thing that you didn’t notice—”
Claire found nothing funny in the reflection. She was furious with herself for her carelessness, and still more furious with Mrs. Fanshawe as the cause thereof. Down the platform she stalked, a picture of vivid impetuous youth, head thrown back, cheeks aflame, grey eyes sending out flashes of indignation. Every porter who came in her way was stopped and imperiously questioned as to his late load, every porter was in his turn waved impatiently away. Claire was growing seriously alarmed. Suppose the box was lost! It would be as bad as losing two boxes, for of what use were bodices minus skirts to match? Never again would she be guilty of the folly of packing bits of the same costumes in different boxes. How awful—how awful beyond words to arrive in London without a decent dress to wear!
Whirling suddenly round to pursue yet another porter, Claire became aware of a figure in a long tweed coat standing on the space beside the taxi-stand, intently watching her movements. She recognised him in a moment as none other than “Erskine” himself, who, having seen his mother into her car, was presumably bound for another destination. But why was he standing there? Why had he been so long in moving away? Claire hastily averted her eyes, but as she cross-questioned porter number four, she was aware that the tall figure was drawing nearer, and presently he was standing by her side, taking off his hat, and saying in the most courteous and deferential of tones—
“Excuse me—I’m afraid something is wrong! Can I be of any assistance?”
Claire’s glance was frigid in its coldness; but it was difficult to remain frigid in face of the man’s obvious sincerity and kindliness.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Please don’t trouble. I can manage quite well. It’s only a trunk …”
“Is it lost? I say—what a fag! Do let me help. I know this station by heart! If it is to be found, I am sure I can get it for you.”
This time there was a distinct air of appeal in his deep voice. Claire divined that the nice man was anxious to atone for his mother’s cavalier behaviour, and her heart softened towards him. After all, why should she punish herself by refusing? Five minutes more or less on the station platform could make no difference one way or another, for at the end they would wish each other a polite adieu, and part never to meet again. And she did want that box!
She smiled, and sighed, and looked delightfully pretty and appealing, as she said frankly—
“Thank you, I should be grateful for suggestions. It’s the most extraordinary and provoking thing—”
They walked slowly down the platform while she explained the situation, and reiterated the fact that she had seen the box ten minutes before. Erskine Fanshawe did not dispute the statement as each porter had done before him; he contented himself with asking if there was any distinctive feature in the appearance of the box itself.
Claire shook her head.
“The ordinary brown leather, with strappings and C.G. on one side. Just like a thousand other boxes, but it had a label, beside the initials. I don’t see how anyone can have taken it by mistake.” She set her teeth, and her head took a defiant tilt. “There’s one comfort; if it is stolen, whoever has taken it will not get much for her pains! There’s nothing in it but skirts. Skirts won’t be much good without the bodices to match!”
The man looked down at her, his expression comically compounded of sympathy and humour. At that moment, despite the irregularity of his features, he looked wonderfully like his handsome mother.
“Er—just so! Unfortunately, however, from the opposite point of view, you find yourself in the same position! Bodices, I presume, without skirts—”
Claire groaned, and held up a protesting hand.
“Don’t! I can’t bear it. It’s really devastating. My whole outfit—at one fell sweep!”
“Isn’t it—excuse my suggesting it—rather a mistake to—er—divide pieces of the same garment, so that if one trunk should be lost, the loss practically extends to two?”
“No, it isn’t. It’s the only sensible thing to do,” Claire said obstinately. “Skirts must be packed at full length, and a dress-box is made for that very purpose. All the same, I shall never do it again. It’s no use being sensible if you have to contend with—thieves!”
“I don’t think we need leap to that conclusion just yet. You have only spoken to two or three porters. We’d better wait about a few minutes longer until the other men come back. Very likely the box was put on a truck by accident, and if the mistake was discovered before it was put on the taxi, it would be sent back to see if its owner were waiting here. If it doesn’t turn up at once, you mustn’t be discouraged. The odds are ten to one that it’s only a mistake, and in that case when the taxi is unloaded, the box will be sent back to the lost luggage office, or forwarded to your address. Was the full address on the box, by the way?”
Claire nodded assent.
“Oh, yes; I have that poor satisfaction at least. I was most methodical and prudent, but I don’t know that that’s going to be much consolation if I lose my nice frocks, and am too poor to buy any more.”
The last phrase was prompted by a proud determination to sail under no false colours in the eyes of Mrs. Fanshawe’s son; but the picture evoked thereby was sufficiently tragic to bring a cloud over her face. The memory of each separate gown rose before her, looking distractingly dainty and becoming; she saw a vision of herself as she might have been, and faced a future bounded by eternal blue serge. All the tragedy of the thought was in her air, and her companion cried quickly—
“You won’t need to buy them! They’ll turn up all right, I am quite sure of that. The worst that can happen is a day or two’s delay. After all, you know, there are thousands of honest folk to a single thief, and even a thief would probably prefer a small money reward to useless halves of dresses! If you hear nothing by to-morrow, you might offer a reward.”
“Oh, I will!” Claire said gratefully. “Thank you for thinking of it.”
No more porters having for the moment appeared in sight, they now turned, and slowly retraced their steps. Claire, covertly regarding her companion, wondered why she felt convinced that he was a soldier; Erskine Fanshawe in his turn covertly regarded Claire, and wondered why it was that she seemed different from any girl he had seen before. Then tentatively he put a personal question.
“Do you know London well, Miss Gifford? My mother told me you were—er—coming to settle—”
“Not at all well, as a whole. I know the little bit around Regent Street, and the Park, and the places one sees in a week’s visit, but that’s all. We never stayed long in town when we came to England. I shall enjoy exploring on half holidays when I am free from work. I am a school-mistress!” said Claire with an air, and gathered from her companion’s face that he knew as much already, and considered it a subject for commiseration. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes, and asked deeply—
“Hate