The train had already stopped more than once, but no one had entered the compartment. She leaned forward in a confidential manner and said,
“Well, he asked me whether the picture was a lot like Annie, and I said yes it was. And he said did I think I’d have known the two of them apart-that is, Lady Jocelyn and Annie, you know-and I said not in a picture, I mightn’t, but if I was to see either of them I’d know fast enough. He said, ‘How?’ and I said, ‘Well, that’s telling!’ So he laughed and said, ‘Well, you can tell Lady Jocelyn when you see her.’ A very pleasant gentleman he sounded, and I wondered if it was Sir Philip. Do you think it could have been?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“I really could not say.”
It would have pleased Nellie Collins to be encouraged in the idea that she had spoken to a baronet. She felt a little disappointed, and went on talking to make up for it.
“I thought it might have been. Perhaps I could ask Lady Jocelyn when I see her. Do you think I could do that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I think it must have been really, because of his asking me whether I had told anyone I had written, and asking me not to tell anyone I was coming up to meet her. He said they had had a dreadful time with reporters. That sounds as if it might have been Sir Philip-doesn’t it?”
The grey stocking revolved briskly. Miss Silver said,
“Yes.”
“So of course I promised I wouldn’t say a word to anyone, and I haven’t-not even to Mrs. Smithers. That’s the lady I’ve got in my first-floor rooms now-the same the Joyces used to have. She’s all right, but you can’t get from it she’s a talker, and things do get round.”
“They do indeed. I think you were very wise not to talk about it.” Miss Silver coughed. “You said just now that you were quite sure you could always have told Annie Joyce from Lady Jocelyn. Did you mean, I wonder, that there was some distinguishing mark-something that would identify Miss Joyce beyond a doubt?”
Nellie Collins moved her head in a way that might have been meant for a nod if it had ever got so far. Whatever it was, she checked it, pursed up her lips, and sat back. After a moment she said,
“I didn’t say anything about that.”
“Oh, no-of course not. I was only thinking how difficult a positive identification might be. The papers have been very discreet, but it seems to me that the family were not immediately convinced that it was Lady Jocelyn who had returned to them. In that case any special knowledge which you possessed might be very important.”
For the first time for many years Nellie Collins found herself considered as a person of importance. It went to her head a little. There was quite a bright colour in her cheeks as she said,
“And that’s what I as good as told him. ‘You couldn’t take me in,’ I said-‘not if it was ever so.’ He laughed very pleasantly, I must say, and said, ‘You’re very positive, Miss Collins’-that’s my name, Nellie Collins. And I said ‘Of course I am,’ but I didn’t tell him why. Only it stands to reason when you’ve had a child from five years old, and washed it and dressed it, and done everything, well, if there’s anything to know about it you’d know it-wouldn’t you?”
Miss Silver was in the act of saying “Yes, indeed,” when the train once more drew up. But this time the platform was crowded. Almost before it was really safe the door had been wrenched open and a number of people poured into the compartment, not only filling the seats, but taking up all the standing room.
Miss Silver put away her knitting, and Nellie Collins picked up her newspaper. Further conversation was impossible.
But when they arrived at Waterloo Miss Collins turned back upon the platform to bid Miss Silver a polite good-bye.
“It’s always so pleasant to have company on a journey. Perhaps we shall meet again if you are coming down to see your niece.”
Miss Silver’s small, neat features expressed a polite response. It was exceedingly improbable that she would repeat her visit to Gladys-at least not for a considerable time-but she did not think it necessary to say so.
“I am quite near the station. Anyone would direct you- The Lady’s Workbox-lavender and blue curtains. And my name is Collins-Nellie Collins.”
Miss Silver could do no less than reciprocate, and at once Nellie Collins was opening her bag and finding pencil and paper.
“Do please write it down for me. I am so bad at remembering names.”
Miss Silver wrote her name in a clear, legible hand. After a moment’s thought she added the address-15 Montague Mansions, West Leaham St.
Miss Collins tucked the slip of paper away behind the little mirror which fitted a pocket in the side of her bag. Then she shook hands rather effusively.
“I do hope we shall meet again!”
Miss Silver said nothing. She was frowning a little as she walked down the platform to give up her ticket. Some way ahead of her amongst the crowd she could see the bunch of bright blue flowers in Nellie Collins’ hat. It appeared, disappeared, and reappeared like something bobbing up and down in a choppy sea. Presently she lost sight of it. Really the platform was very crowded-very crowded indeed. So many of those nice American soldiers. Canadians too. French sailors in their very becoming caps-only really more like tam o’ shanters, with the red bobble on the top. And Poles- curious to see their skins, not fair at all against that very fair hair. All most interesting, and quite cosmopolitan. She glanced up at the clock and saw that it was already ten minutes to four. As she dropped her eyes she caught a last glimpse of blue in the crowd. It might have been the bunch of flowers on Nellie Collins’ hat, or it might not. She could never be sure.
CHAPTER 17
Miss Silver continued on her way. Her pleasure in the anticipation of an agreeable tea-party was very slightly tinged by something to which she could hardly have given a name. Miss Nellie Collins had interested her-she had interested her very much. She would have liked to witness her meeting with Lady Jocelyn. That was the worst of not being tall- one’s outlook in a crowd was limited, sadly limited. To no one but herself would Miss Silver have admitted that her lack of inches might be a handicap. In point of fact, a crowd was the only place in which she had ever felt it to be one. In all other circumstances she stood firmly on her dignity and found it a perfectly adequate support.
She entered a room in which three or four people were talking, and was very warmly received by her hostess, Janice Albany, who had not so very long ago been Janice Meade.
“Garth is hopeless for tea, but he asked to be remembered, and he is so sorry to miss you… Mr. and Mrs. Murgatroyd… And this is Lyndall Armitage-she’s a sort of cousin.”
The Murgatroyds were both immense. Mr. Murgatroyd was jovial. He laughed and said,
“What sort of cousin, Mrs. Albany?”
Janice laughed too. Her hair with its close crop of curls caught the light. Her eyes matched the curls exactly.
“The sort you say is a very near relation, if you like them. Lyn is a very near relation.”
Miss Silver shook hands, and began to make polite enquiries about Colonel Albany, about the six-months-old baby who had been christened Michael after the inventor of harschite, and about Colonel Albany’s aunt, Miss Sophy Fell. It appeared that Garth was well, and very busy at the War Office-“Of course he doesn’t get home till all hours”-and that Michael was down at Bourne with Miss Sophy. “Better for him than being in London. And I go up and down. I’ve been lucky enough to get my own old Nanny, so I do a part-time job up here and keep an eye on Garth.”