Piccadilly, and the girl was paying the driver. It was not the Rain-Girl.
For his own satisfaction Beresford measured the distance of that drive, which had cost him half a crown. It consisted of exactly thirty-eight paces, thirty-one and four-fifth yards. This, he decided, must be the shortest drive on record.
It was fatiguing work, both mentally and physically, this eternal and uncertain pursuit, and he was always glad to get back to the Ritz-Carlton for lunch, tea or dinner. Every time he entered the dining-room, it was with a slight thrill of anticipation. Some day he would perhaps see her sitting there, and know that the search was ended.
His hopes would wane with the day, and when night came and dinner was over, he would tell himself what a fool he was, how hopeless was the quest upon which he, like some modern knight-errant, had set out; yet each morning found him eager and determined to pursue what he had now come almost to regard as his destiny.
Not only was there his search for the Rain-Girl; but he had always to be on the look out to avoid possible friends and acquaintance. Once he had caught sight of Lady Drewitt in her carriage, on another occasion he had avoided Lord Peter Bowen only by dashing precipitately into an A.B.C. shop. How he escaped he could never be quite sure. He had a vague idea that he pretended to have mistaken the place for an office of the boy-messengers, or boy scouts, he could not remember which; but
