"Thank you," replied Peter.
"Motorist?" enquired the other laconically. "Yes; had a breakdown."
The ice was broken. The studied, almost taciturn reserve of the typical level-headed Lancashire man was not proof against the claims of motoring. Before the train glided out of the station the two passengers were deep in the subject of cars and their peculiarities.
"Dash it all! we seem a long time getting to Two Elms," remarked the stranger.
He drew aside the blind and peered into the darkness. At that moment the train rumbled under a broad bridge.
"Sorry!" he exclaimed. "We're already half way between Blackberry Cross and Tarleigh. We must have taken the wrong train: it's a non-stop to Windyhill."
"Don't mention it," rejoined Peter affably. "I'm quite enjoying your society. An hour or so won't make very much difference provided I can get home before eleven. I hope you won't be inconvenienced?"
The stranger laughed.
"I'm secretary of the Tarleigh and Blackberry Cross Golf Club," he explained. "Entwistle—Philip Entwistle—is my name. By profession I am what is commonly known as a vet. It's our Annual General Meeting, and I'm due there at eight."
"'Fraid it will have to stop at the due," said Mr. Barcroft grimly. "It's 7.30 already."