"Do I have to change at all?" she asked.
"No, this is slow from our last stopping-place."
"I am so much obliged," she answered, in a tone of relief.
After a little pause her companion continued, "I know Steynham very well, and most of the people who live there; can I direct you further?"
"Thank you, I'm afraid not. I get out at that station, but I shall be met there, I expect. I am going on higher up the country beyond Wychcliff, to a place called Oaklands—a Mr. Medhurst's."
"Oaklands—Medhurst," repeated her interlocutor with a slight start, which she did not fail to catch.
"Do you know anything about it—about them?" she asked somewhat timidly, for the man's tone and expression as he repeated the words had filled her with a vague disquiet.
"No—oh—no, I've never been there, never met Mr. Medhurst," he answered, somewhat hesitatingly.
He offered no further remark, and remained apparently buried in his newspaper until the train drew up, and he and his companion prepared to get out. As they alighted, he turned to Margaret Woodford.
"The next station is yours," and, lifting his hat, passed down the platform out of her sight.