"Two hours late," he remarked by way of introducing himself, and looked at his watch again. The man nodded emphatically. "Funny thing is," he said, "that they've had no information at the office. The stationmaster generally gets advice when the train leaves Plymouth." "Good lord," said Gurney. "Do you mean to say that the train hasn't got to Plymouth yet?" "Looks like it," said the stranger. "They say it's the plague. It's dreadfully bad in London, they tell me." "D'you mean it's possible the train won't come in at all?" asked Gurney. "Oh! I should hardly think that," replied the other. "Oh, no, I should hardly think that, but goodness knows when it will come. Very awkward for me. I want to get to St Ives. It's a long way from here. Have you far to go?" "Well, Padstow," said Gurney. "Padstow!" echoed the stranger. "That's a good step." "Further than I want to walk." "I should say. Thirty miles or so, anyway?" "About that," agreed Gurney. "I wonder where one could get any information. "It's very awkward," was all the help the stranger had to offer. Gurney crossed the line and invaded the stationmaster's office. "Sorry to trouble you," he said, "but do you think this train's been taken off, for any reason?" "Oh, it 'asn't been taken off," said the stationmaster with a wounded air. "It may be a bit late." Gurney smiled. "It's something over two hours behind now, isn't it?" he said. "Well, I can't 'elp it, can I?" asked the stationmaster. "You'll 'ave to 'ave patience." "You've had no advice yet from Plymouth?" persisted Gurney, facing the other's ill-temper. "No, I 'aven't; something's gone wrong with the wire. We can't get no answer," returned the stationmaster. "Now, if you please, I 'ave my work to do." Gurney returned to the down platform and joined a group of men, among whom he recognized the man he had spoken to a few minutes before. The afterglow was dying out of the sky, in the south-west a faint young moon was setting behind the high bank of the cutting. A porter had lighted the station lamps, but they were not turned full on. "The stationmaster tells me that something has gone wrong with the telegraphic communication," said Gurney, addressing the little knot of passengers collectively. "He can't get any answer it seems." "Been an accident likely," suggested some one. "Or the engine-driver's got the plague," said another. "They'd have put another man on." "If they could find one." "If we ain't careful we shall be gettin' the plague down 'ere." After all why not? The horrible suggestion sprang up in Gurney's mind with new force. That remote city seemed suddenly near. He saw in imagination the train leaving Paddington, and only a journey of six or seven hours divided that departure from its arrival at Liskeard. It might come in at any moment, bearing the awful infection. Why should he wait? There was an inn near the station. He might find a conveyance there. "Constantine Bay?" questioned the landlord.