“Things happen funny,” the station-master remarked while he got his pen. “I wrote one by this same train a month ago, and before that I don’t think we have ever sold one since the station was opened.”
“Ah,” Westray said, paying little attention, for he was engaged in a new mental disputation as to whether he was really justified in travelling first-class. He had just settled that at such a life-crisis as he had now reached, it was necessary that the body should be spared fatigue in order that the mind might be as vigorous as possible for dealing with a difficult situation, and that the extra expense was therefore justified; when the station-master went on:
“Yes, I wrote a ticket, just as I might for you, for Lord Blandamer not a month ago. Perhaps you know Lord Blandamer?” he added venturously; yet with a suggestion that even the sodality of first-class travelling was not in itself a passport to so distinguished an acquaintance. The mention of Lord Blandamer’s name gave a galvanic shock to Westray’s flagging attention.
“Oh yes,” he said, “I know Lord Blandamer.”
“Do you, indeed, sir”—and respect had risen by a skip greater than any allowed in counterpoint. “Well, I wrote a ticket for his lordship by this very train not a month ago; no, it was not a month ago, for ’twas the very night the poor organist at Cullerne was took.”
“Yes,” said the would-be indifferent Westray; “where did Lord Blandamer come from?”
“I do not know,” the station-master replied—“I do not know, sir,” he repeated, with the unnecessary emphasis common to the uneducated or unintelligent.
“Was he driving?”
“No, he walked up to this station just as you might yourself. Excuse me, sir,” he broke off; “here she comes.”
They heard the distant thunder of the approaching train, and were in time to see the gates of the level-crossing at the end of the platform swing silently open as if by ghostly hands, till their red lanterns blocked the Cullerne Road.