“There are no cabs here, miss,” he informed her regretfully. “Anyone that wants to be met orders Wonnacott’s wagonette in advance.” Then, seeing Jean’s face lengthen, he continued hastily: “But if they’re expecting you up at Staple, miss, they’ll be sure to send one of the cars to meet you. There!”--triumphantly, as the chug-chug of an approaching motor came to them clearly on the crisp, cold air--“that’ll be it, for certain.” Followed the sound of a car braking to a standstill in the road outside the station, and almost immediately a masculine figure appeared advancing rapidly from the lower end of the platform. Even through the dusk of the winter’s afternoon Jean was struck by something curiously familiar in the man’s easy, swinging stride. A surge of memories came flooding over her, and she felt her breath catch in her throat at the sudden possibility which flashed into her mind. For an instant she was in doubt--the thing seemed so amazingly improbable. Then, touching his hat, the stationmaster moved respectfully aside, and she found herself face to face with the unknown Englishman from Montavan. She gazed at him speechlessly, and for a moment he, too, seemed taken aback. His eyes met hers in a startled, leaping glance of recognition and something more, something that set her pulses racing unsteadily. “_Little comrade!_” She could have sworn the words escaped him. Then, almost in the same instant, she saw the old, rather weary gravity replace the sudden fire that had blazed up in the man’s eyes, quenching its light. “So--_you_ are Miss Peterson!” There was no pleasure, no welcome in his tones; rather, an undercurrent of ironical vexation as though Fate had played some scurvy trick upon him. “Yes.” The brief monosyllable came baldly in reply; she hardly knew how to answer him, how to meet his mood. Then, hastily calling up her reserves, she went on lightly: “You don’t seem very pleased to see me. Shall I go away again?” His mouth relaxed into a grim smile. “This isn’t Clapham Junction,” he answered tersely. “There won’t be a train till ten o’clock to-night.” A glint of humour danced in Jean’s eyes. “In that case,” she returned gravely, “what do you advise?” “I don’t advise,” he replied promptly. “I apologise. Please forgive such an ungracious reception, Miss Peterson--but you must acknowledge it was something in the nature of a surprise to find that you were--you!” Jean laughed. “It’s given you an unfair advantage, too,” she replied. “I still haven’t penetrated your incognito--but I suppose you are Mr. Brennan?” “No. Nick Brennan’s my half-brother. I’m Blaise Tormarin, and, as my mother was unable to meet you herself, I came instead. Shall we go? I’ll give the station-master instructions about your baggage.”