"And that is——?"
"They will write you from there to-morrow," replied Miss Cogbill, "and then you will know as much as I do."
Scarsdale was quite too happy to be seriously worried over his ignorance of their destination; in fact, he was rather amused at his wife's little mystery, and, beyond indulging in some banter on the subject, was well content to let the matter drop. He entertained her, however, by making wild guesses as to where they were to pass the night from what he had learned of their point of departure, Waterloo Station; but soon turned to more engrossing topics, and before he realised it an hour had passed away, and the train began to slow up for their first stop out of London.
"Is this the end of our journey?" he queried.
"What, Basingstoke?" she cried. "How could you think I'd be so unromantic? Why, it is only a miserable, dirty railway junction!"
"Perhaps we change carriages here?"
"Wrong again; but the train stops for a few minutes, and if you'll be good you may run out and have a breath of fresh air and something to drink."
"How do you know," he asked, "that I sha'n't go forward and see how the luggage is labelled?"
"That would not be playing fair," she replied, pouting, "and I should be dreadfully cross with you."
"I'll promise to be good," he hastened to assure her, and, as the train drew up, stepped out upon the platform.