The man started back.
“Have you got the ticket, Jones?” he asked.
“Lord, sir,” said Jones, “I didn’t know you in that get-up. Yes, here it is.”
“Is the woman there still?”
“Yes, sir; she’s taken a ticket, third-class, to town. She has been going on like a wild thing because they would not give her any liquor at the refreshment bar, till at last she frightened them into letting her have six of brandy. Then she began and told the girl all sorts of tales about you, sir—said she was going back to London because she was afraid that if she stopped here you would murder her—and that you were her lawful husband, and she would have a warrant out against you, and I don’t know what all. I sat by and heard her with my own ears.”
“Did she—did she indeed?” said Mr. Quest, with an attempt at a laugh. “Well, she’s a common thief and worse, that’s what she is, and by this time to-morrow I hope to see her safe in gaol. Ah! here comes the train. Good-night, Jones. I can manage for myself now.”
“What’s his game?” said Jones to himself as he watched his master slip on to the platform by a gate instead of going through the booking office. “Well, I’ve had four quid out of it, any way, and it’s no affair of mine.” And Jones went home to tea.
Meanwhile Mr. Quest was standing on the wet and desolate platform quite away from the lamps, watching the white lights of the approaching train rushing on through the storm and night. Presently it drew up. No passengers got out.
“Now, mam, look sharp if you’re going,” cried the porter, and the woman Edith came out of the refreshment room.
“There’s the third, forrard there,” said the porter, running to the van to see about the packing of the mails.