Fate had ordained that she should be the victim of this
man's caprice, the slave of impulses which might or might not be her
destruction. It was as if he watched her trying to walk on a quicksand.
And he was powerless to help her. Saltash had defeated him, and he had no
insight into his motives. Unstable, baffling, irresponsible as a monkey
that swings from tree to tree, he had snatched his prize, and even Jake,
who knew him better than most, could only speculate as to whether he
would carry it high above disaster or tire and idly fling it away. Some
vagrant sense of honour seemed to have actuated him so far, but never
yet had he known such a motive to last for long. The man's face was
beyond him, too fantastic for comprehension. He recognized that he was
capable of greatness, but very few were the occasions on which he had
achieved it. If the motive power were lacking in this instance, Toby's
chances were indeed small.
He found an empty carriage and threw his belongings on to a seat. The
train was not a favourite one, and there would be no crowd. He had some
minutes to wait, and he lighted his pipe and began to pace the platform
unencumbered. A few travellers straggling by eyed him with some interest.
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