THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
riage. She dared not wait any longer. There was a possible chance of his arriving at the station the last moment. But there was no William Grogan on the train that left for Port Said that morning.
Her luggage and William's were stacked together in the corridor; and the Calcutta missioner eyed the pyramid gloomily as he passed the compartment.
Ruth imagined all sorts of calamities. William had been run over. He had been set upon and robbed. He was lying in a hospital, and was badly hurt, unable to tell who he was. And he might be dead. She kept up pluckily under the strain. For five and a half hours she sat in her corner stiffly, paying no heed to the calls for luncheon, not daring to close her eyes for fear of the pictures she would see behind the lids, replying absently to such questions as were put to her by the other ladies. What really gave her this fictitious strength was the hope that at Port Said there would be a telegram.
He was so strong that his strength would probably react against him. His assailants would be forced to beat him cruelly in order to plunder him safely. He had promised to return to the hotel immediately after the boxing-match, and no doubt the old craving to prowl had been his undoing.
She wished now that she had remained in Cairo. She could have searched the hospitals, notified the police and the consul. Moreover, she could have taken a late train to Suez and joined the Ajax
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