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 my mind, I turned to listen. As I did so, my eye was attracted by a girl's face.

She was seated in one of the small curtained alcoves of the restaurant which looked down upon the street, and there was something in her attitude which drew my attention at once. Through the half-drawn curtains I could just catch a glimpse of her, sitting quite still, one listless hand on the table before her, the other raised to her face. In the distance I observed the curve of her chin above slender white fingers, the contour of her pale cheek, and the dark hair beneath her hat. Her head was turned away from me, as if she were gazing out of the window into the street below.

I sat and looked at her. The last notes of Chanson Triste died away, and was followed by the sound of popping corks. The room was overcrowded now, but the girl sat in her alcove as remote from the glare and noise as though in another world. The lines of her graceful figure seemed listless with unhappiness, almost despair. That was my first thought as I watched her, and wondered what she was doing there alone. She fascinated me, in a way. It was certainly not the place where one expected to encounter a figure of grief.

It has been said that by mere force of contemplation it is possible to attract the attention of a person unconscious of you. I know nothing of that; and, indeed, such was not my intent. But just then the object of my scrutiny moved her head. She looked around, and across the crowded room our eyes met.

It was of the briefest duration, that interchanged look. Quickly she turned her head away again. The next moment she rose composedly, left the alcove, and made her way quickly towards the swinging glass doors. I remained in my seat, haunted by the memory of her fugitive glance. Direct though it had been, I do not think that she saw me at all. Perhaps across h£r vision had floated some hidden phantom of the brain when her eyes seemed to look into mine. For there was fear in their clear, dark depths, and it was very real. She called to mind a picture I had once seen in a Florentine church, of a woman staring at the figure of Death. She had opened the door of her house to knock, and it was Death himself, come for her. This girl had the look of the woman in the picture. In it was the same quality of helpless, appealing fear, as if she too had been brought face to face with some horror too great for the human soul to withstand.

Thinking thus, some impulse led me to spring to my feet and follow her retreating form. Perhaps it was the feeling that she needed help, which you may think I was little qualified to give. But the perplexity of deciding the point was spared me, for before I could reach the doors in my turn she had gone. I walked down the steps, but she had vanished from sight.

My glance ranged futilely up and down the crowded Strand. Useless to seek for her there; and if I had found her, what could I have said or done? These considerations restored my common sense. I tried to put the episode from me, and wondered how I should spend the afternoon.

Unlimited time was at my disposal, and 1 still had a shilling to spend. It was a mild, clear day of young autumn; grey and sharp, but for London Wonderfully clear. At least I could take a ride on a bus, and enjoy the keen fresh air. One, passing half empty, stopped outside the hotel. I jumped on it, and clambered upstairs. At the bottom of the Strand it turned into the Kingsway.

It cost me fivepence to go to Newington Green, and another fivepence to return. I have always liked bus-riding through London streets, and I. came back by another route; Islington and the Angel to the City. Islington was a new part of London to me, and I wondered how its denizens endured life there. Did any higher form of angel than the hotel of that name seek to comfort the pallid women and children who swarmed in its streets?

The bus went down the City Road, and made for Blackfriars by way of Queen Victoria Street. At Blackfriars my ticket expired, and I got off the vehicle at