"Oh, dear, no!" said she quickly.

"I wish she'd wired me what train to expect her on," thought he grimly.
"She doesn't know me. That's good. She was expecting Havens and he's
missed connections somehow," shot rapidly through his brain. At the same
time he was thinking of her as the prettiest woman he had seen in all his
life. Then aloud: "I'll look on the platform. Maybe he's lost in this
great city. What name shall I call out?"

"Please don't call very loudly. You'll wake the dead," she said, with a
pathetic smile. "It's awfully good of you. He may come at any minute, you
know. His name is--is"--she hesitated for a second, and then went on
determinedly--"Dudley. Tall, dark man. I don't know how I shall thank you.
It's so very awkward."

Rossiter darted from her glorious but perplexed presence. He had never
seen Havens, but he was sure he could recognize an actor if he saw him in
Fossingford. And he would call him Dudley, too. It would be wise. The
search was fruitless. The only tall, dark object he saw was the mailcrane
at the edge of the platform, but he facetiously asked if its name was
Dudley. Receiving no answer, he turned back to cast additional woe into
the heart of the pretty intriguer. She was standing in the door, despair
in her eyes. Somehow he was pleased because he had not found the wretch.
She was so fair to look upon and so appealing in her distress.

"You couldn't find him? What am I to do? Oh, isn't it awful? He promised
to be here."

"Perhaps he's at a hotel."