The Man Who Bought London | Page 4

increased turnover and,
in some mysterious fashion, in vastly increased profits.
Some hinted that those profits were entirely fictitious, but that were
slander only to be hinted at, for why should Tack and Brighten, a
private company with no shareholders to please or pain, go out of their
way to fake margins? For the moment, the stability of the firm was a
minor consideration.
It wanted seven minutes to nine, and here was Elsie Marion at
Westminster Bridge Road Tube Station, and Tack and Brighton's
Oxford Street premises exactly twelve minutes away. She shrugged her

pretty shoulders. One might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,
she thought. But she was angry with herself at her own stupidity. The
next lift would be as crowded--she was left in no doubt as to that, for it
was full as soon as the doors were open--and she might have saved
three precious minutes.
She was crowded to the side of the lift and was thankful that the
unsavoury and often uncleanly patrons of the line at this hour in the
morning were separated from her by a tall man who stood immediately
before her.
He was bareheaded, and his grey hair was neatly brushed and pomaded.
His high forehead, clean-cut aquiline nose and firm chin, gave him an
air of refinement and suggested breed. His eyes were blue and deep-set,
his lips a trifle thin, and his cheek-bones, without being prominent,
were noticeable on his sun-tanned face. All this she took in in one idle
glance. She wondered who he was, and for what reason he was a
traveller so early in the morning. He was well-dressed, and a single
black pearl in his cravat was suggestive of wealth. His hat he held
between his two hands across his breast. He was an American, she
gathered, because Americans invariably removed their hats in elevators
when women were present.
The lift sank downward to the platform sixty feet below, and as it did
she heard the faint sound of a "ting," which told her she had missed a
train. That would mean another three minutes' wait. She could have
cried with vexation. It was a serious matter for her--an orphan girl
absolutely alone in the world and dependent upon her own exertions for
a livelihood. Cashiers were a drug on the market, and her shorthand and
typewriting lessons had only advanced to a stage where she despaired
of their getting any further.
Her salary was very small, and she thought regretfully of the days when
she had spent more than that on shoes, before dear old spendthrift Aunt
Martha had died, leaving her adopted daughter with no greater
provision for the future than a Cheltenham education, a ten-pound note,
and a massive brooch containing a lock from the head of Aunt Martha's
love of the sixties.

Between the beginning of a lift's ascent and the moment the doors open
again a girl with the cares of life upon her can review more than a man
can write in a year. Before the giant elevator touched bottom Elsie
Marion had faced the future and found it a little bleak. She was aware,
as she turned to make her exit, that the tall man before her was
watching her curiously. It was not the rude stare to which she had now
grown callous, but the deeper, piercing glance of one who was
genuinely interested. She suspected the inevitable smut on her nose,
and fumbled for her handkerchief.
The stranger stepped aside to let her pass down first, and she was
compelled to acknowledge the courtesy with a little nod. He followed
her closely, instinct told her that; but so many people were following
closely in that hurried slither to the platform.
There was some time to wait---two full minutes--and she strolled to the
deserted end of the platform to get away from the crowd. She disliked
crowds at all times, and this morning she hated them.
"Excuse me!"
She had heard that form of introduction before, but there was
something in the voice which now addressed her which was unlike any
of the impertinent overtures to which she had grown accustomed.
She turned and confronted the stranger. He was looking at her with a
pleasant little smile.
"You'll think I'm crazy, I guess," he said; "but somehow I just had to
come along and talk to you--you're scared of elevators?"
She might have frozen him--at least, she might have tried--but for some
unaccountable reason she felt glad to talk to him. He was the kind of
man she had known in the heyday of Aunt Martha's prosperity.
"I am a little scared," she said, with a quick smile. "It is absurd, because
they are so safe."

He nodded.
"I'm a little scared myself," he confessed