"And what's the next station up the road, do you know?"
"Brookdale, sir, and there you can get the other road if you want it."
"I see. And is this the up train?"
"Yes, sir. I suppose Mr. Amory had to go out of his way to make any connection--the trains are poor here, sir. Mr. Ashley had to have two specials put on for to-day. You see, Cliffwood is a small place, sir."
Cliffwood! Antony could have kicked himself for not 113 recognising in all this pomp of iron-gated villas, the scattered collection of estates thus poetically christened.
"That's a bad business about them murdering thieves, isn't it, sir?" pursued the driver confidentially.
Antony's heart sank like lead. "Murdering?" he gasped, "did the Frenchman die, then?"
"Oh, him!" returned the driver scornfully, "no, he didn't, the foreign pup. How could he--that old snake hasn't a fang in his head!"
Antony grasped the seat beneath him and drew a long, deep breath.
"I--I am glad to hear it," he said concisely, and as he spoke the incoming train whistled--a mellow, pleasing note that sang of freedom (yea, and guiltless freedom!) to wedding guest and housemaid alike.