“Write me, care of my father—he’ll have my address, though this last row of mine made him pretty hot.”
I passed through the gate and down the long train to my sleeper. Turning, with my foot on the step, I waved a farewell to Larry, who stood outside watching me.
In a moment the heavy train was moving slowly out into the night upon its westward journey.
CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES
Annandale derives its chief importance from the fact that two railway lines intersect there. The Chicago Express paused only for a moment while the porter deposited my things beside me on the platform. Light streamed from the open door of the station; a few idlers paced the platform, staring into the windows of the cars; the village hackman languidly solicited my business. Suddenly out of the shadows came a tall, curious figure of a man clad in a long ulster. As I write, it is with a quickening of the sensation I received on the occasion of my first meeting with Bates. His lank gloomy figure rises before me now, and I hear his deep melancholy voice, as, touching his hat respectfully, be said:
“Beg pardon, sir; is this Mr. Glenarm? I am Bates from Glenarm House. Mr. Pickering wired me to meet you, sir.”
“Yes; to be sure,” I said.
The hackman was already gathering up my traps, and I gave him my trunk-checks.
“How far is it?” I asked, my eyes resting, a little regretfully, I must confess, on the rear lights of the vanishing train.