This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler [Picture: Book cover] KITTY CARSTAIRS * * * * * By J. J. BELL Author of “Wee Macgreegor,” “Oh! Christina!” “Dancing Days,” etc., etc. * * * * * NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS 1918 * * * * * _Printed in Great Britain_ * * * * * CHAPTER I THROUGH the still summer dusk the night mail for London roared down the long declivity, clashed into a cutting and forth again, screamed, flashed past the deserted little station of Dunford, and thundered triumphantly along the level towards Kitty Carstairs. Leaning on the fence bounding the track, the girl watched the tremendous approach with a fascination which custom had failed to dull. As the monster seemed to leap upon her, her attitude lost its easy laxness; she stood erect, her white-clad arms leaving the fence, her slim brown fingers clutching it. A sensation of oily, steamy warmth, a glimpse of two dark human figures in a fiery glow—and the great engine was past. A whirl of brilliantly-lighted corridors with their puppet-like occupants, a couple of darkened sleeping-cars, more carriages, a postal van, a guard’s van—and the train was gone. A rush of air cooled her delicately-tanned face and disturbed her unprotected dark hair. Her brown eyes gazed after the train, and saw the big net swing out from the postal van, and snatch the little leather-covered bundle from the iron arm, which Sam the postman had moved into position a minute earlier. With a sigh Kitty took her hands from the fence. The thrill was over, the reaction had come. For a moment she hesitated. Should she wait for Sam, the postman, as she sometimes did, and get his honest, cheerful company home? No, she couldn’t be bothered with Sam to-night; she would sooner run the risk of meeting some one whom she would rather not meet. She turned to cross the broad field that stretched between her and the main road, and found herself face to face with a young man in light tweeds, well cut but getting shabby. He was fairly tall, grey-eyed, and inclined to fairness, and his shaven countenance was decidedly attractive. “Good evening,” he said, with a grave smile, as though not quite sure of his welcome. She was startled, but recovered herself as quickly as the flush left her cheek. “Good evening, Mr. Hayward,” she returned in a tone of politeness softened by kindness. “I didn’t know you were in Dunford.” “I came home this afternoon. May I walk a bit of the way with you?—that is if you aren’t—” He stopped short.