She passed him swiftly without seeing him, almost brushed
against him. And behind her came a dark man with black moustache and
imperial, following her closely with an air of proprietorship.
Jake wheeled in his tracks, for a second amazed out of all composure. But
an instant later he was in pursuit. He had had but a fleeting glimpse of
her face, and the blue cloak was quite unfamiliar to him; but there was
no mistaking the boyish freedom of her gait, the athletic swing of her as
she turned and leaped into a compartment that her companion opened for
her.
The black-browed Italian was in the act of following when Jake arrived.
The realization of another hand upon the door was the first intimation
that reached him of the Englishman's presence. He turned and looked
into a pair of red-brown eyes that regarded him with the utmost
steadiness as a quiet voice made slightly drawling explanation.
"This lady is a friend of mine," said Jake Bolton. "I should like a word
with her."
The Italian looked murderous for a moment, but he gave ground almost in
spite of himself. Perhaps the calm insistence of the other man's bearing
warned him at the outset of the futility of attempting any other course
of action; Jake was actually in the carriage before he could jerk out a
word of protest.
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