“Who is that?” he cried. “What do you want with me?”
Macheson stepped into the lane.
“Nothing at all,” he answered reassuringly. “I simply thought that you might have lost your way. These are lonely parts.”
The newcomer drew a step nearer. He displayed a small ragged beard, a terror-stricken face, and narrow, very bright eyes. His black clothes were soaked and splashed with mud.
“I want a railway station,” he said rapidly. “Where is the nearest?”
Macheson pointed into the valley.
“Just where you see that light burning,” he answered, “but there will be no trains till the morning.”
“Then I must walk,” the man declared feverishly. “How far is it to Nottingham?”
“Twenty-five miles,” Macheson answered.
“Too far! And Leicester?”