an intent and waiting figure—a woman's figure. It was the woman from whom he had so ignominiously fled.
He felt, this time, no horripilating tingle of shock. His fund of wonder seemed to be exhausted. He stood staring at her, almost abstractedly, with the mild and resigned bewilderment of a man who has seen lightning strike twice in the same spot.
"Quick!" said the woman, with an almost imperious movement of her gloved hand.
"What?" asked Lingg, inadequately, irrelevantly.
"I wanted to warn you," the woman whispered, as she moved back on the cab seat, obviously to make room for him. "I must warn you—but not here."
"Of what?" asked Lingg. He saw that she was quite alone in the cab.
"Come!" she commanded, ignoring his question.
He stepped into the hooded gloom like a coerced schoolboy. He was not afraid, he assured himself. It was merely that he was unwilling to be made the blind tool of forces he could not comprehend.
"Of what?" he repeated, noticing that the cab moved forward the moment the door had slammed shut.
