Marjorie imagined they would take the train to Moretonhampstead, and from thence by motor omnibus to Post Bridge. When she had collected her luggage, John Dale led her across the bridge and out of the station. And there she saw Robert Despard waiting in a motor-car. He seized the reluctant hand she gave him, and after pressing it warmly, put it to his lips.
"Welcome home!" he cried; then, turning to Dale: "By Jove, what a fine lady she's become! She'll be able to play the part to perfection, eh?"
Marjorie flushed with resentment and disappointment. Despard was the last person in the world she wanted to see.
"Have I got to drive home in that thing?" she cried, pointing disdainfully to the motor-car.
While the luggage was being strapped on, Dale explained that it belonged to Mr. Despard, and that he kindly allowed them to make use of it.
"It belongs to the syndicate," Despard replied. "There have been great happenings at Post Bridge since you went away, Marjorie. I'm afraid you'll find the place changed—not the farmhouse itself, but the surrounding waste land."
"Mr. Despard has discovered that we've been living with a fortune under our feet all these years," Dale explained.
He looked anxiously at his daughter and took her hand; but she made no response. After two or three attempts at conversation when the car had started, Dale relapsed into silence. It was not easy to talk at the pace they went, with the wind singing in their ears. And in his heart, too, he felt a little afraid of Marjorie. A little frightened at the quick march of events since she had been away. And perhaps just a little ashamed.
Marjorie guessed what had happened. When Blackthorn Farm was reached, she knew. But instead of feeling grateful or elated, disgust seized her. Within a few hundred yards of the farm, hideous corrugated iron buildings had sprung up; the land all around the tin mine had been cleared and levelled. Plant was being erected; scattered here and there were temporary dwellings, and offices for the workmen; a miniature railway line had already been laid on the ancient granite track. Tears rose to her eyes as she looked at the desecration that had been done to her moorlands and her home.
"Whose work is this?" she asked. "Mr. Despard's, of course! I suppose Sir Reginald gave permission——"