But the station yard outside was startlingly empty, horse and trap were gone. The tree was still there, but with a man leaning against it, a dirty man with a dirty pipe and a dirty smell. Had he seen a horse and trap?
“A brown mare?”
“Yes.”
“Trap with yaller wheels?”
“That’s it.”
“O ah, a young ooman druv away in that....”
“A young woman!”
“Ah, two minutes ago.” And he described Lizzie. “Out yon,” said the dirty man, pointing with his dirty pipe to the marshes.
Gerald ran until he saw a way off on the level winding road the trap bowling along at a great pace; Lizzie was lashing the cob.
“The damned cat!” He puffed large puffs of exasperation and felt almost sick with rage, but there was nothing now to be done except walk back to “The Black Dog,” which he began to do. Rage gave place to anxiety, fear of some unthinkable disaster, some tragic horror at the inn.