“Dryden is there,” she said quickly, breathlessly. “He has one of my notebooks. I can show the police some part—”
“I have the mural,” Stoker said, pointing to a satchel on the floor. “I brought everything I could find and sent the local watchman running for a detective and a squadron of police.” He reached for her again, taking her by the arms. “I’m so sorry you came here alone, Sabine. I’m sorry it took me so long to reach you. I’d never have found you in this building if not for the dog’s barking.”
“But how did you know to bring my mural or the police?” she gasped.
“Sir Dryden rode by Belgrave Square in an open cab. I was staring out the window like a—well, you saw the wretched state I was in. When the cab circled the third time and I caught sight of his face, I realized. There was no guarantee that he would call to Regent Street next, but if there was the slightest chance, I could not but come to you. I gathered the mural and summoned the police as an afterthought. I’m too old to rescue girls on my own.”
Sabine laughed, a gurgle of pride and gratefulness and relief, crying at the same time. “I managed,” she said. “And you are not so old.”
“You did manage,” he said, hugging her fiercely again. “You certainly did, my courageous wife.”
She gave him a squeeze and wiggled away. “Will you take the police in?” She nodded to the office. “I can’t face him again.” She wiped blood from her nose with the back of her hand and reached for the satchel. “Which one is the detective?”
