It was about five o'clock on as dreary an afternoon as I ever remember, when the slow train, which crawls always at a most miserable pace from Peterborough across the eastern counties, deposited me at Little Drayton. Besides the station-master there were but two people on the wet platform--one a porter, who made for my bags with almost wolflike alacrity after a moment's amazed stare, at me, presumably at the rare advent of a passenger with luggage; the other was a thin, dark young man, clad in a light mackintosh with very large checks, and smoking a long cigar. Whilst I was collecting my things he came leisurely up and accosted me. "Your name Morton?" he inquired, without removing his cigar from his teeth. I assented. "Have you come down to meet me?" I asked. "Yes; old Randall's gone out to dinner, so he asked Cis and me to come and fetch you. Cart's outside; but we can't take all the luggage. Just look out what you want, will you, and we'll send for the rest to-morrow." I selected a portmanteau and followed him out of the station. A light, four-wheeled brown cart was waiting, drawn by a pair of small, clever-looking cobs, altogether a very smart turnout. "Pitch that bag in behind, porter," ordered my new acquaintance. "Now, then, Mr. Morton, if you're ready we'll be off. Your train's half an hour late, and Cis will be wondering what's become of us." "Is Cis Mr. Ravenor's nephew, Silchester?" I asked, as I clambered up beside him. "Oh, yes! By the bye, I ought to have introduced myself, oughtn't I? My name is de Cartienne--Leonard de Cartienne." "And are you Dr. Randall's other pupil?" I inquired. "Yes; I'm doing a grind there. Beastly slow it is, too. You'll be sorry you've come, I can tell you, before very long." Looking around me, I was inclined to think that that was not improbable. It was too dark to see far, but what I could see was anything but promising. The country was perfectly flat, dreary, and barren, and the view was unbroken by tree, or hedge, or hill. By the side of the road was a small canal, over the sullen waters of which, and across the road, brooded spectral-like clouds of mist. The rain still fell rapidly, and the wheels of our cart ran noiselessly in the sandy, paste-like mud. "Ghastly night, isn't it?" remarked my companion, breaking the silence again. "Rather!" I assented vigorously. "What a flat, ugly country, too! I never saw anything like it." "Beastly country! beastly place altogether!" de Cartienne agreed. "I'm jolly sick of it, I can tell you! Steady, Brandy! steady, sir!" giving the near animal a cut with the whip. "What do you call your horses?" I asked curiously. "Brandy and Soda. Jolly neat name for a pair. Don't you think so?" "Uncommon, at any rate," I answered ambiguously. "Didn't you say that we were to call for Silchester somewhere?" "Mean Cis? Oh, yes; we've got to pick him up at the Rose and Crown." "A hotel?"