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,
