“It’s very awkward,” was all the help the stranger had to offer.
Gurney crossed the line and invaded the stationmaster’s office. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but do you think this train’s been taken off, for any reason?”
“Oh, it ’asn’t been taken off,” said the stationmaster with a wounded air. “It may be a bit late.”
Gurney smiled. “It’s something over two hours behind now, isn’t it?” he said.
“Well, I can’t ’elp it, can I?” asked the stationmaster. “You’ll ’ave to ’ave patience.”
“You’ve had no advice yet from Plymouth?” persisted Gurney, facing the other’s ill-temper.
“No, I ’aven’t; something’s gone wrong with the wire. We can’t get no answer,” returned the stationmaster. “Now, if you please, I ’ave my work to do.”
Gurney returned to the down platform and joined a group of men, among whom he recognized the man he had spoken to a few minutes before.
The afterglow was dying out of the sky, in the south-west a faint young moon was setting behind the high bank of the cutting. A porter had lighted the station lamps, but they were not turned full on.
“The stationmaster tells me that something has gone wrong with the telegraphic communication,” said Gurney, addressing the little knot of passengers collectively. “He can’t get any answer it seems.”