The railway station nearest to Broomhead, was three miles distant from it, by the road: but there was a shorter cut across some fields--bearing past the house of that Mr. Sandy Bray, if you are curious to know--which reduced it to less than two. It was one of those rural stations so little frequented that travellers are tempted to ask why they were built at all. Such a thing as a fly, or an omnibus, had never yet been seen at it, at midday: you may therefore judge what chance Thomas Godolphin had of either, getting there, as he did, at midnight. He was the only passenger to alight, and the train went puffing on. The man, who lived in the one-roomed cottage close by, and was called the station-master, appeared to be the only official to receive him. A man who had been drafted thither from one of the English lines. "For Broomhead, sir?" he questioned, recognizing the traveller. "Yes. Do you happen to know how Sir George Godolphin is?" "He looks rare and poorly, sir. He was past here in his carriage to-day. Huddled up in a corner of it, as if he was cold; or else hadn't the strength to sit up. Her ladyship was inside with him." "There's no porter about, I suppose?" "He has been gone this two hours, sir. I'd offer to carry your luggage myself, but I shall have the up-express by in half an hour. I shut up for the night then." "I would not trouble you for so trifling a matter, at this hour, were you at liberty," replied Thomas Godolphin. He took up his portmanteau himself: a thing not much larger than what the French would call a petit sac-de-nuit, containing little besides a clean shirt and his shaving-tackle: and started, bending his steps not along the road, but across it to the stile. "I wouldn't take the field way to-night, sir, if I were you," said the man from the station door. "The road is safest." "Why is it?" asked Thomas Godolphin. "There's a nasty bit by the field way, a quarter of a mile before you come to Bray's. Anybody, not knowing it well, might take the wrong turning, and go, head first, into the dam." "But I do know it well," said Thomas Godolphin. "And the night is light enough to distinguish the turnings." The station-master looked up at the skies--figuratively speaking, for he could see nothing but fog. A light, hazy mist; not a dark one; which seemed likely to turn to rain. He said no more, except a "Good night, sir:" and Thomas Godolphin walked on, hesitating for a moment between the two roads, and then turning decisively to that of the fields, as if some hidden impulse impelled him. Perhaps it did so.