“Will you tell me,” she asked quietly, “why you have entered my carriage which is engaged—­and in such an extraordinary manner?”

He drew a little breath.  He had never heard a voice like it before—­soft, musical, and with the slightest suggestion of a foreign accent.  Then he remembered that she was waiting for an answer.  He began his apology.

“I am sorry—­indeed I am very sorry.  I had no time to look inside, and I thought it was an empty carriage—­a third-class one, too.  It was very stupid.”

“You appeared to be” she remarked, “in a hurry.”

The faint note of humour in her tone passed undetected by him.

“I wanted to get away,” he said.  “I had walked fourteen miles, and there was no other train.  I am very sorry to intrude upon you.  The train was moving when I reached the platform, and I jumped.”

She shrugged her shoulders slightly and raised her book once more.  But from over its top she found herself watching very soon this strange travelling companion of hers.  The trousers above his clumsy boots were frayed and muddy, his black clothes were shiny and antiquated in cut—­these, and his oddly-arranged white tie, somehow suggested the cleric.  But when she reached his face her eyes lingered there.  It puzzled and in a sense attracted her.  His features were cleanly cut and prominent, his complexion was naturally pale, but wind and sun had combined to stain his cheeks with a slight healthy tan.  His eyes were deep-set, keen and bright, the eyes of a visionary perhaps, but afire now with the instant excitement of living.  A strange face for a man of his apparently humble origin.  Whence had he come, and where was he going?  The vision of his face as he had leaped into the carriage floated again before her eyes.  Surely behind him were evil things, before him—­what?  She took up her novel again, but laid it down almost immediately.  “You are going” she asked, “to London?”

“To London,” he repeated dreamily.  “Yes.”

“But your luggage—­was that left behind?”

He smiled.

“I have no luggage,” he said.  “You are going up for the day only?” she hazarded.

He shook his head.  There was a note of triumph almost in his tone.

“I am going for good,” he said.  “If wishes count for anything I shall never set foot within this county again.”

There was a story, she felt sure, connected with this strange fellow-passenger of hers.  She watched him thoughtfully.  A human document such as this was worth many novels.  It was not the first time that he had excited her interest.

“London” she said, “is a wonderful place for young men.”

He turned a rapt face towards her.  The fire seemed leaping out of his eyes.

“Others have found it so,” he said.  “I go to prove their words.”

“You are a stranger there, then?”

“I have never been further south than this in my life,” he replied.  “I know only the London of De Quincey and Lamb-London with the halo of romance around it.”