“Yes, sir; she’s taken a ticket, third-class, to town. She has been going on like a wild thing because they would not give her any liquor at the refreshment bar, till at last she frightened them into letting her have six of brandy. Then she began and told the girl all sorts of tales about you, sir—said she was going back to London because she was afraid that if she stopped here you would murder her—and that you were her lawful husband, and she would have a warrant out against you, and I don’t know what all. I sat by and heard her with my own ears.” “Did she—did she indeed?” said Mr. Quest, with an attempt at a laugh. “Well, she’s a common thief and worse, that’s what she is, and by this time to-morrow I hope to see her safe in gaol. Ah! here comes the train. Good-night, Jones. I can manage for myself now.” “What’s his game?” said Jones to himself as he watched his master slip on to the platform by a gate instead of going through the booking office. “Well, I’ve had four quid out of it, any way, and it’s no affair of mine.” And Jones went home to tea. Meanwhile Mr. Quest was standing on the wet and desolate platform quite away from the lamps, watching the white lights of the approaching train rushing on through the storm and night. Presently it drew up. No passengers got out. “Now, mam, look sharp if you’re going,” cried the porter, and the woman Edith came out of the refreshment room. “There’s the third, forrard there,” said the porter, running to the van to see about the packing of the mails. On she came, passing quite close to Mr. Quest, so close that he could hear her swearing at the incivility of the porter. There was a third-class compartment just opposite, and this she entered. It was one of those carriages that are still often to be seen on provincial lines in which the partitions do not go up to the roof, and, if possible, more vilely lighted than usual. Indeed the light which should have illuminated the after-half of it had either never been lit or had gone out. There was not a soul in the whole length of the compartment. As soon as his wife was in, Mr. Quest watched his opportunity. Slipping up to the dark carriage, he opened and shut the door as quietly as possible and took his seat in the gloom. The engine whistled, there was a cry of “right forrard,” and they were off. Presently he saw the woman stand up in her division of the compartment and peep over into the gloom. “Not a blessed soul,” he heard her mutter, “and yet I feel as though that devil Billy was creeping about after me. Ugh! it must be the horrors. I can see the look he gave me now.”