He felt very happy this morning, happier than he had, it seemed to him, since they had come into their fortune. Of such worth is sorrow sometimes, to make a contrast by which to intensify joy.
On arriving at his destination he went to the man in the ticket office and put the following inquiry:
“Do you know anybody in the place named Reginald Pell?”
“No,” was the reply. “Has he lived here long?”
“No, he doesn’t really live here. He’s my twin brother, you see, and I have a telegram from him, but he didn’t say where he was staying. Is this a very big place?”
The ticket agent smiled. “Well, it isn’t exactly a metropolis,” he said.
“Thank you,” responded Roy, and he walked out of the rear door toward the dusty road, thinking he was not going to have such an easy job to find Rex after all, if he was in the town where he was supposed to be.
The station was built at a little distance from the town proper. Roy walked on along a board walk until he came to the first house, one of those white, green shuttered affairs whose number is legion in the rural districts.
A woman without a hat on was sweeping the leaves from the path that led down to the gate. The lines about her mouth were rather stern, but Roy made up his mind to begin with her.