The train had already stopped at one large junction. Looking out through the window she saw by the lamps that it was Guildford. After another interminable interval of clattering and tossing and plunging through the darkness, they came to a second station of importance, Petersfield. "We are nearing our destination," Girdlestone remarked, shutting up his book.
This proved to be a small wayside station, illuminated by a single lamp, which gave no information as to the name. They were the only passengers who alighted, and the train rolled on for Portsmouth, leaving them with their trunks upon the dark and narrow platform. It was a black night with a bitter wind which carried with it a suspicion of dampness, which might have been rain, or might have been the drift of the neighbouring ocean. Kate was numb with the cold, and even her gaunt companion stamped his feet and shivered as he looked about him.
"I telegraphed for a trap," said he to the guard. "Is there not one waiting?"
"Yes, sir; if you be Mister Girdlestone, there's a trap from the Flyin' Bull. Here, Carker, here's your gentleman."
At this summons a rough-looking ostler emerged into the circle of light thrown by the single lamp and, touching his hat, announced in a surly voice that he was the individual in question. The guard and he then proceeded to drag the trunks to the vehicle. It was a small wagonette, with a high seat for the driver in front.
"Where to, sir?" asked the driver, when the travellers had taken their seats.
"To Hampton Priory. Do you know where that is?"
"Better'n two mile from here, and close to the railway line," said the man. "There hain't been no one livin' there for two year at the least."
"We are expected and all will be ready for us," said Girdlestone. "Go as fast as you can, for we are cold."
The driver cracked his whip, and the horse started at a brisk trot down the dark country road.