Then the fact that she was librarian to Lord Sutcombe recurred to him. It was a strange coincidence, one of the strangest; and as he faced it, Derrick's intention to go straight to the Hall and ask for Celia became changed. He did not want to meet the Sutcombes: it was just possible that Heyton and Miriam would be there; and most certainly he did not want to meet them. He uttered a groan of impatience: he would not be able to go to the Hall; he would have to find some means of meeting her elsewhere; every moment of delay, every moment that stood between him and the sight of her, assumed the length of years. With his brows knit, and his heart in a state of rebellion, he got out at the little station and looked round him wistfully, irresolutely. There was a fly at the station steps, but he was in too much of a fever to ride in a crawling vehicle, and he inquired of a sleepy porter the direction of the nearest inn. "There's no inn here, sir," said the man. "You see, this is really only the station for the Hall; but you'll find a small kind of place in the village farther on; it's called Fleckfield; it's rather more than a couple of miles." Derrick gave his small portmanteau to the flyman and told him to drive there, and he himself set out walking. Climbing a hill at a little distance from the station, he caught sight of the tower of a big house and knew that it must be Thexford Hall. And, within those walls, was the girl he loved! He set his teeth and strode on, resentful of every yard that took him from her instead of to her. A signpost directed him to Fleckfield, and presently he came to the village and to the little inn in the middle of the single street. It was a rustic looking place, with the usual bench and table outside it; and on the former was seated a young fellow in a knicker-bocker suit. He was writing busily on a pad which rested on his knee, and he looked up with an absent, far-away expression in his eyes as Derrick strode in upon his solitude. "Good afternoon," he said, pleasantly, when he had come down from the clouds; for it was Reggie Rex, busy on the outline of his novel. Derrick returned the salutation and sank on to the bench beside him; and Reggie, after a comprehensive glance, and one of distinct approval, said: "You look hot, sir. Have a drink. I can recommend the local ale. It is good though not particularly intoxicating." "Thanks," said Derrick; and he made short work of the tankard of home-brewed which the landlord brought him. "Are you staying here?" he inquired. "I ask, because I want a room for a night or two." "That's all right," said Reggie. "They'll be able to give you a room, I think. Your portmanteau has arrived already. Is your name Grey?" "No," replied Derrick, staring at him with pardonable surprise. "Sydney Green." "Oh, well, it wasn't a bad guess," said Reggie, complacently. "I saw 'S. G.' on your portmanteau, and 'Green' seemed so obvious that I hit on Grey."