The train only stopped at a few of the largest stations; but at Preston there was a halt of ten minutes, and he went to get himself a biscuit and a glass of sherry. As he returned to the platform to regain his carriage, he ran up against a lady whose figure struck him as familiar. Nothing could be simpler than this lady’s dress, and yet it was worn with an elegance that suggested strange possibilities to his mind, and made him follow the owner curiously. She seemed startled and annoyed by his scrutiny, although the thick Shetland veil she was wearing not only concealed, but distorted her features so much that it was impossible to recognize her, supposing even she had been the person he had come northward to seek. But his suspicions had never taken that direction for a moment. This lady was taller than Lady Gwendolyn by at least a couple of inches, and there was a sort of insolence in her bearing which Colonel Dacre seemed to know only too well. In spite of himself, he thought of Lady Teignmouth, and, wondering what mischief was hidden under this disguise, kept close to her heels. She quickened her pace, and presently, to his surprise, jumped into a third-class carriage. A common man in the corner moved forward to make room for her, and evidently recognized her superiority, for he said, almost respectfully: “Won’t you come here, miss? you’ll find it more comfortable.” “Thank you, zir, I am sure,” answered the other, with an abominable accent. “Although, for the matter of that, bad’s the best.” Colonel Dacre waited to hear no more. He was quite satisfied now that the young person in the Shetland veil was some lady’s-maid, who had learned to copy her mistress successfully enough to deceive an outsider, until she opened her mouth. Then there could be no doubt about her social status whatever; and it quite amused him to picture Lady Teignmouth’s horror, supposing she had been told that he had taken a third-class passenger, with a northern burr, for her aristocratic self. The rest of the journey passed without further incident. On getting down at Westhampton, Colonel Dacre found himself looking out rather curiously for the heroine of his little adventure at Preston; but she was not there, nor in the third-class carriage where he had seen her last, so that either she had changed her seat, or had got down at one of the intermediate stations. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter to me,” he said to himself. “I have had abundant proof that it is not Lady Teignmouth, and that was all I wanted to know.” There was one rickety fly waiting outside the station, and Colonel Dacre engaged it at once, and told the man to drive direct to Turoy Grange. It was only four miles off, but the roads were so bad, the country so hilly, and the poor horse so groggy, that it was an hour and a half before they came in sight of Turoy, a little cluster of cottages, with a small, gray church tower rising out of their midst.