five coins into his hesitating palm I could not fail to observe that the proceeding struck him as exceptional in some way. But he remained speechless, and with a brisk step I passed over the bridge that spanned the line.
A large private motor-car was waiting in the otherwise deserted station-yard, the driver in his place, and, as a casual glance showed me, someone seated inside. I was passing, giving it no further attention, when my own name, called out by the occupant of the car, pulled me up.
"Hullo, Staples, here we are," was the greeting. "How the deuce did you come down?"
Now, as I have indicated, this was my name—Frank Staples. But the extraordinary thing was that I did not know a soul in England, while the man in the motor-car seemed to have been positively expecting me.
I approached the door to investigate when I became aware of the presence of a second occupant.
For years I had had in my mind a fairly well-defined portrait of a woman's face. The features were small and regular, the poise of the head imperious, the expression wayward and piquant, and the whole set with a dark and brilliant beauty. I scarcely expected ever to see in the flesh this image that had unconsciously formed itself; nor did I until I stood at the door of the motor-car confronted by a girl whose vivid face was sufficiently like my ideal to startle me into an astonished silence.
"Your train isn't due for ten minutes yet," continued the man. "How did the express come to stop?"
"I stopped it," I replied mechanically, without taking my eyes off the extraordinarily vivacious face before me. "I wanted to get out here."
"The deuce you did!" he exclaimed, forcing himself on me through my preoccupation by the vigour of his personality. "Do you mean to say you pulled the cord?"
