“Excellent,” agreed Ashton-Kirk. “And it’s a thousand pities you didn’t impress it upon young Campe. If you had, he’d never have been in his present state of mind and body.”
The huge shoulders of Scanlon shrugged in disbelief.
“Campe was past all reason when I got to him,” maintained he. “To talk candidly would only have spoilt any chance I had of doing him a good turn.”
The 8.4 was a dusty ill-kept train, which started and stopped with a series of jerks. After an hour on board of it, among a lot of uncomfortable, sour-looking passengers, the two got off at Marlowe Furnace. The station was a shed-like structure with a platform of hard-packed earth, and a brace of flaring oil lamps. An ancient, with a wisp of beard and thumbs tucked under a pair of braces, watched them get off.
“The station agent,” said Scanlon.
The train went panting and glaring away into the darkness; it had disappeared around a bend when the station official nodded to Scanlon.
“Evening,” greeted he.
“Hello,” said Scanlon.
“Back again, I see.”
“Yes—once more.”