As he proceeded along the road, Mr. Scanlon drew a tobacco pouch from his pocket, also a packet of small papers, and formally rolled himself a cigarette. With this properly lighted, he went calmly on, his brows level and his expectations at their highest.
“At first,” meditated he, “I took this thing in another way. It was all worry. But now that I’ve shifted the responsibility to Kirk, I see it differently. It’s an experience—an adventure. And, believe me, I’m going to get out of it all there is in it.”
When he reached the rise which the girl had ridden over, he sighted a small road which his tramping trips had told him led down to the river. By the side of this road, writing in a leather-covered book, was a man. He was a fat man and soft-looking.
“Hello,” said Mr. Scanlon, “Who’s this?”
With much industry, the stranger wrote in the little book; and never once did he lift his head. Scanlon halted.
“There is something tells me,” was his thought, “that I have met with this gentleman upon some past occasion. But where?”
The little lane was one of the retiring sort; it had fallen oak leaves covering it to the depth of one’s shoe tops; the crooked rail fences gave it a homely look.
The man with the book paused in his writing, and then went carefully over what had been done; it did not seem to please him, and so he began some alterations in the entry.
Then, glancing up, he sighted Scanlon, and moved toward him softly. When he spoke his voice was also soft.
“I am a stranger,” said he. “And I fear I’ve lost my way. Can you direct me to the station at Marlowe Furnace?”