"Those clothes will have to be pressed the first thing to-morrow," he
said to himself, but without a trace of annoyance. "Hang it all, she
doesn't look like that sort of woman," his mind switched. "But just think
of being tied up to an old crocodile like Wharton! Gee! One oughtn't to
blame her!"

Then he went forth into the night once more and listened for the sound of
buggy wheels. It was almost time for the arrival of the belated man from
the country, and he was beginning to pray that he would not appear at all.
It came to his mind that he should advise her to return to New York in the
morning. At last his watch told him that the train was due to pass in five
minutes. And still no buggy! Good! He felt an exhilaration that threatened
to break into song.

Softly he stole back into the waiting-room, prepared to awaken her before
the train shot by. Something told him that the rumble and roar would
terrify her if she were asleep. Going quite close to her he bent forward
and looked long and sadly upon the perfect face. Her hair was somewhat
disarranged, her hat had a very hopeless tilt, her lashes swept low over
the smooth cheek, but there was an almost imperceptible choke in her
breathing. In her small white hand she clasped a handkerchief tightly, and
--yes, he was sure of it--there were tear-stains beneath her lashes. There
came to him the faint sob which lingers long in the breath of one who has
cried herself to sleep. The spy passed his hand over his brow, sighed,
shook his head and turned away irresolutely. He remembered that she was
waiting for a man who was not her husband.

Far down the track a bright star came shooting toward Fossingford. He
knew it to be the headlight of the flyer. With a breath of relief he saw
that he was the only human being on the platform. Havens had failed again.