“What time is it?” she insisted.
All round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights.
“I don’t know.”
She put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt his joints fuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket, while he stood panting. In the darkness she could see the round, pale face of the watch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was panting till he could take her in his arms again.
“I can’t see,” she said.
“Then don’t bother.”
“Yes; I’m going!” she said, turning away.
“Wait! I’ll look!” But he could not see. “I’ll strike a match.”
He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the glowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light; then his face lit up, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All was black before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her feet. Where was he?
“What is it?” she asked, afraid.
“You can’t do it,” his voice answered out of the darkness.
There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring in his voice. It frightened her.
“What time is it?” she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless.
“Two minutes to nine,” he replied, telling the truth with a struggle.
“And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?”
“No. At any rate——”
She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wanted to escape.
“But can’t I do it?” she pleaded.
“If you hurry,” he said brusquely. “But you could easily walk it, Clara; it’s only seven miles to the tram. I’ll come with you.”
“No; I want to catch the train.”
“But why?”
“I do—I want to catch the train.”
Suddenly his voice altered.
“Very well,” he said, dry and hard. “Come along, then.”
And he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, wanting to cry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the rough, dark fields behind him, out of breath,
