“You may accept them with a clear conscience now, for you have fairly earned them. I would give twenty pounds myself gladly for an hour of good, honest, tranquil sleep, such as I have deprived you of.” “La! sir,” said old Hannah; “then why don’t you go home and go to bed at once?” “Because it would be of no use. I should only turn and toss about until morning.” “How funny! I never turn until I turn out of bed. Perhaps you’ve got something on your mind, sir. There was Joshua Billing, in our village, who murdered his wife; he was that miserable he couldn’t lay of nights, and got up and hanged hisself at last, leaving a letter to say that his wife haunted him, so he couldn’t abide his life.” “Anyhow, I haven’t murdered my wife,” said Colonel Dacre, in spite of himself. “The fact is, I haven’t a wife to murder.” “Ah! poor gentleman, that accounts for your looking so bad!” returned Hannah, who had the fullest faith in matrimony. “My husband would be a dreadful poor creature without me.” “I see, I must get married at once,” observed Colonel Dacre, as he stepped out into the twilight, feeling, as old Hannah expressed it, a very poor creature, indeed, without this woman who had grown to be the light and savor of his life. He asked discreet questions at the railway station, but the one solitary porter declared that no lady had come there that day. “In fact, sir,” he said, pocketing Colonel Dacre’s half-crown, as if such munificence staggered him, “we have no ladies, as a rule. Our station was made principally for market fellows and farmers. When we haven’t no passengers we signal, and the train doesn’t stop.” “How often have they stopped here to-day?” “Twice, sir.” “And were there many passengers on these two occasions?” “There was one lady for the twelve-o’clock express, and that was all.” “What was this lady like?” “Rather stout, sir. Judging by the flour on her face, I should say she was a miller’s daughter; judging by her dress, I should say she was a duchess.” “How did she come?” “In Lady Lenox’s wagonette.” “Oh!” said Colonel Dacre, and took a ticket for the next station. “It’s the late parliamentary, sir,” observed the porter; “but perhaps you don’t mind.” “Not at all. I am not going far.” “You’ll find Bearstead a very out-of-the-way place, sir,” pursued the porter warningly. “There’s only one hotel, and that’s not at all the style of thing for a gentleman like you.” “You need not be anxious about me, I sha’n’t remain all night. Is that the train now?” “Yes, sir.” Just as it drew up along the platform, a lady in black, deeply veiled, stepped hurriedly into the station, and said something to the porter in a low voice, no doubt slipping a small coin into his hand at the same time, for he began to bestir himself at once. Colonel Dacre was standing close to him when he labeled the lady’s boxes, and found that she was going to Preston, like himself.