“I see, I must get married at once,” observed Colonel Dacre, as he stepped out into the twilight, feeling, as old Hannah expressed it, a very poor creature, indeed, without this woman who had grown to be the light and savor of his life.
He asked discreet questions at the railway station, but the one solitary porter declared that no lady had come there that day.
“In fact, sir,” he said, pocketing Colonel Dacre’s half-crown, as if such munificence staggered him, “we have no ladies, as a rule. Our station was made principally for market fellows and farmers. When we haven’t no passengers we signal, and the train doesn’t stop.”
“How often have they stopped here to-day?”
“Twice, sir.”
“And were there many passengers on these two occasions?”
“There was one lady for the twelve-o’clock express, and that was all.”
“What was this lady like?”
“Rather stout, sir. Judging by the flour on her face, I should say she was a miller’s daughter; judging by her dress, I should say she was a duchess.”
“How did she come?”