The railway station at Detton Magna presented, if possible, an even more dreary appearance than earlier in the day, as the time drew near that night for the departure of the last train northwards.  Its long strip of flinty platform was utterly deserted.  Around the three flickering gas-lamps the drizzling rain fell continuously.  The weary porter came yawning out of his lamp room into the booking office, where the station master sat alone, his chair turned away from the open wicket window to the smouldering embers of the smoky fire.

“No passengers to-night, seemingly,” the latter remarked to his subordinate.

“Not a sign of one,” was the reply.  “That young chap who came down from London on a one-day return excursion, hasn’t gone back, either.  That’ll do his ticket in.”

The outside door was suddenly opened and closed.  The sound of footsteps approaching the ticket window was heard.  A long, white hand was thrust through the aperture, a voice was heard from the invisible outside.

“Third to Detton Junction, please.”

The station-master took the ticket from a little rack, received the exact sum he demanded, swept it into the till, and resumed his place before the fire.  The porter, with the lamp in his hand, lounged out into the booking-hall.  The prospective passenger, however, was nowhere in sight.  He looked back into the office.

“Was that Jim Spender going up to see his barmaid again?” he asked his superior.

The station master yawned drowsily.

“Didn’t notice,” he answered.  “What an old woman you’re getting, George!  Want to know everybody’s business, don’t you?”

The porter withdrew, a little huffed.  When, a few minutes later, the train drew in, he even avoided ostentatiously a journey to the far end of the platform to open the door for the solitary passenger who was standing there.  He passed up the train and slammed the door without even glancing in at the window.  Then he stood and watched the red lights disappear.

“Was it Jim?” the station master asked him, on their way out.

“Didn’t notice,” his subordinate replied, a little curtly.  “Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t.  Good night!”

* * * * *

Philip Romilly sat back in the corner of his empty third-class carriage, peering out of the window, in which he could see only the reflection of the feeble gas-lamp.  There was no doubt about it, however—­they were moving.  The first stage of his journey had commenced.  The blessed sense of motion, after so long waiting, at first soothed and then exhilarated him.  In a few moments he became restless.  He let down the rain-blurred window and leaned out.  The cool dampness of the night was immensely refreshing, the rain softened his hot cheeks.  He sat there, peering away into the shadows, struggling for the sight of definite objects—­a tree, a house, the outline of a field—­anything to keep