The train stopped, and he got out and stood on the platform. He was a stranger there. No one took the least notice of him. He found himself at the farther end of the little platform, and before walking forward to leave the station, he paused and looked round him. From the place where he now stood, the Abbey was not visible. He was looking in another direction, towards the north-west. Behind him rose the great wall of Penhull, over which his ancestors in the good old days had helped King Jamie to hunt witches with vigour and malignity. Before him he saw a more level country, spreading towards an ancient town called Clyderhow, with its quaint old castle. Farther to the west came some other long-backed fells, on the other side of which was St. George’s Channel: and nearer, on the brow of one of the said fells, some three miles away, he saw faintly the grey tower of an ancient church, and just above that, where the ground began to rise towards the western fells, a long, large, imposing building of whitish stone, exquisitely situated, and from its commanding position, a landmark for miles around. This was the great Jesuit college of Brentwood, which had once belonged to a branch of the Wellfield family, in the days when they were great men and devout Catholics. Jerome’s eyes fell upon it, and with the sight of it came the remembrance of his having, years ago, met a certain priest belonging to that establishment. ‘That was more than seven years ago,’ he reflected, ‘before the Abbey had been sold to this _roturier_. I must have been a mere lad then, but how well I remember him! What was his name? Somerville, surely. Yes. Pablo Somerville. I remember. He was half Spanish—there was some mystery about his father, I recollect. What a musician he was—and a gentleman, if ever there was one. Will it be my luck, I wonder, to renew the acquaintance? One might meet with a worse fate than some of those fellows at Brentwood have, after all, for——’ ‘Ticket, sir, please,’ said a curt voice at his elbow. Jerome roused himself, took his eyes off Brentwood, and went along the platform, down a little slanting path, which brought him into a road. Here he met a man, and asked him if he knew where Monk’s Gate was. ‘Dun yo mean th’ heawse, or th’ yate itsel’?’ inquired the man. ‘I mean the house.’ ‘Well, yo’ mun go through th’ yate for to get to th’ heawse. Yon’s t’ shortest road,’ he pointed down a grassy lane with trees on either side. ‘Keep down thur, and then turn to th’ left, and yo’ conna miss th’ Monk’s Gate, ’cause it straddles o’ across th’ road, and yo’ mun go under it, and turn in at th’ first gate to your left. Yon’s t’ Monk’s Gate House. But it’s empty, and locked oop,’ he added, looking inquiringly at the person who had an errand to Monk’s Gate. ‘I know. I have the key.’ ‘M’ appen you belong to ’t?’