‘By underground. Here we are.—Two second singles, Mark Lane, please!—No, that’s for the west-end trains. Down here! Next train, the man says.’ They were in the mephitic cellar, with the two long wooden platforms where the subterranean trains land or load their freights. A strangling gas tickled their throats and set them coughing. It was all dank and dark and gloomy. But little youth and love care for that! They were bubbling over with the happiness of this abnormal meeting. Both talked together in their delight, and Maude patted Frank’s sleeve with every remark. They could even illuminate all that was around them, by the beauty and brightness of their own love. It went the length of open praise for their abominable surroundings. ‘Isn’t it grand and solemn?’ said Maude. ‘Look at the black shadows.’ ‘When they come to excavate all this some thousands of years hence, they will think it was constructed by a race of giants,’ Frank answered. ‘The modern works for the benefit of the community are really far greater than those which sprang from the caprice of kings. The London and North-Western Railway is an infinitely grander thing than the pyramids. Look at the two headlights in the dark!’ Two sullen crimson discs glowed in the black arch of the tunnel. With a menacing and sinister speed, they grew and grew until roaring they sprang out of the darkness, and the long, dingy train, with a whining of brakes, drew up at the platform. ‘Here’s one nearly empty,’ said Frank, with his hand on the handle. ‘Don’t you think—’ said Maude. ‘Yes, I do,’ cried Frank. And they got into one which was quite empty. For the underground railway is blessed as regards privacy above all other lines, and where could a loving couple be more happy, who have been torn apart by cruel fate for seven long hours or so? It was with a groan that Frank remarked that they had reached Mark Lane. ‘Bother!’ said Maude, and wondered if there were any shop near where she could buy hairpins. As every lady knows, or will know, there is a very intimate connection between hairpins and a loving husband. ‘Now, Frank, about your telegram.’ ‘All right, dear. Come along where I lead you, and you will understand all about it.’ They passed out of Mark Lane Station and down a steep and narrow street to the right. At the bottom lay an old smoke-stained church with a square tower, and a small open churchyard beside it. ‘That’s the church of Saint Olave,’ said Frank. ‘We are going into it.’