His servant came back presently, with explanations for his prolonged absence.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said, “but I made a mistake in taking the tickets.”
Mr. Sabin merely nodded. A little time ago a mistake on the part of a servant was a thing which he would not have tolerated. But those were days which seemed to him to lie very far back in the past.
“You ought to have alighted at the last station, sir,” the man continued. “Stockbridge is eleven miles from here.”
“What are we going to do?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“We must drive, sir. I have hired a conveyance, but the luggage will have to come later in the day by the cars. There will only be room for your dressing-bag in the buggy.”
Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.
“The drive will be pleasant,” he said, “especially if it is through such country as this. I am not sure that I regret your mistake, Harrison. You will remain and bring the baggage on, I suppose?”
“It will be best, sir,” the man agreed. “There is a train in about an hour.”
They walked out on to the road where a one-horse buggy was waiting. The driver took no more notice of them than to terminate, in a leisurely way, his conversation with a railway porter, and unhitch the horse.