The sun was declining when I managed to slip out of the house unobserved, and set forth down the avenue to Littleham village. The quaint old place was delightful in the evening calm, but, heedless of everything, I hurried forward down the hill to Withycombe Raleigh, and thence straight across the open country to Lympston station, where I took a third-class ticket for Exeter. At a wayside station a passenger for London is always remarked, therefore I only booked as far as the junction with the main-line. At Exeter I found that the up-mail was not due for ten minutes, therefore I telegraphed to London for a room at the _Grand Hotel_, and afterwards bought some newspapers with which to while away the journey. Sight of newspapers dated six years later than those I had last seen aroused within me a lively curiosity. How incredible it all seemed as in that dimly lit railway-carriage I sat gathering from those printed pages the history of the lost six years of my life! The only other occupant of the compartment besides myself was a woman. I had sought an empty carriage, but failing to find one, was compelled to accept her as travelling companion. She was youngish, perhaps thirty-five, and neatly dressed, but her face, as far as I could distinguish it through her spotted veil, was that of a woman melancholy and bowed down by trouble. In her dark hair were premature threads of silver, and her deep-sunken eyes, peering forth strangely at me, were the eyes of a woman rendered desperate. I did not like the look of her. In travelling one is quick to entertain an instinctive dislike to one's companion, and it was so in my case. I found myself regretting that I had not entered a smoking-carriage. But I soon became absorbed in my papers, and forgot her presence. It was only her voice, a curiously high-pitched one, that made me start. She inquired if I minded her closing the window because of the draught, and I at once closed it, responding rather frigidly, I believe. But she was in no humour to allow the conversation to drop and commenced to chat with a familiarity that surprised me. She noticed how puzzled I became, and at length remarked with a laugh-- "You apparently don't recognise me, Mr Heaton." "No, madam," I answered, taken aback. "You have certainly the advantage of me." This recognition was startling, for was I not flying to London to escape my friends? This woman, whoever she was, would without doubt recount her meeting with me. "It is really very droll," she laughed. "I felt sure from the first, when you entered the compartment, that you didn't know me." "I certainly don't know you," I responded coldly-- She smiled. "Ah! I expect it's my veil," she said. "But it's really remarkable that you should not recognise Joliot, your wife's maid." "You! My wife's maid!" I gasped, recognising in an instant how cleverly I had been run to earth.