“In Lady Lenox’s wagonette.”
“Oh!” said Colonel Dacre, and took a ticket for the next station.
“It’s the late parliamentary, sir,” observed the porter; “but perhaps you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I am not going far.”
“You’ll find Bearstead a very out-of-the-way place, sir,” pursued the porter warningly. “There’s only one hotel, and that’s not at all the style of thing for a gentleman like you.”
“You need not be anxious about me, I sha’n’t remain all night. Is that the train now?”
“Yes, sir.”
Just as it drew up along the platform, a lady in black, deeply veiled, stepped hurriedly into the station, and said something to the porter in a low voice, no doubt slipping a small coin into his hand at the same time, for he began to bestir himself at once.
Colonel Dacre was standing close to him when he labeled the lady’s boxes, and found that she was going to Preston, like himself.
As he was not in the mood for conversation, and knew no woman could possibly keep quiet for three mortal hours, he decided to get into a smoking-carriage.