‘No, sir; not that I knows of.’
‘From Morleigh Cottage?’ Jack explained.
‘No, sir,’ he repeated. ‘But chance it may come yet.’
‘Chance, indeed,’ I echoed in a low tone. ‘It will be too disgraceful, Jack, if Mr Challacombe has forgotten to desire the carriage to be sent.’
We both proceeded to the other side of the station, and gazed through the fast-falling twilight up a narrow road, down which the porter informed us the pony-trap was sure to come, if it was coming at all—which did not seem probable, after a dreary half-hour’s hopeless waiting for it.
In the meanwhile, we beguiled the time by asking the porter some leading questions with regard to the surroundings, &c., of Morleigh Cottage; all of which he answered with a broad grin on his sunburnt, healthy face.
‘How far is the Cottage from here?’ Jack inquired.
‘Better than six miles.’
‘Six miles!’ I exclaimed!—‘O Jack, Mr Challacombe said it was about three.’
‘It’s a good step more than that,’ observed the porter, with a decided nod of his head.