“Been an accident likely,” suggested some one.
“Or the engine-driver’s got the plague,” said another.
“They’d have put another man on.”
“If we ain’t careful we shall be gettin’ the plague down ’ere.”
After all why not? The horrible suggestion sprang up in Gurney’s mind with new force. That remote city seemed suddenly near. He saw in imagination the train leaving Paddington, and only a journey of six or seven hours divided that departure from its arrival at Liskeard. It might come in at any moment, bearing the awful infection. Why should he wait? There was an inn near the station. He might find a conveyance there.
“Constantine Bay?” questioned the landlord.
“It’s near St Merryn,” said Gurney, but still the landlord shook his head.
“Not far from Padstow,” explained Gurney.
“Pard-stow!” exclaimed the landlord on a rising note. “Drive over to Pard-stow at this time o’ night?” He appeared to think that Gurney was joking.