e-storey, ivy-covered inn was all lit up
and the door held firmly open. They passed through the narrow entrance
and into the stone-flagged barroom, where the men laid down their
stretcher. As many of the villagers as could crowd in filled the
passage. Gerald sank into a chair. The sudden absence of wind was almost
disconcerting. He felt himself once more in danger of fainting. He was
only vaguely conscious of drinking hot milk, poured from a jug by a
red-faced and sympathetic woman. Its restorative effect, however, was
immediate and wonderful. The mist cleared from before his eyes, his
brain began to work. Always in the background the horror and the
shame were there, the shame which kept his hand pressed with unnatural
strength upon the broken lock of that dressing-case. He sat a little
apart from the others and listened. Above the confused murmur of voices
he could hear the doctor's comment and brief orders, as he rose to his
feet after examining the unconscious man.

"An ordinary concussion," he declared. "I must get round and see the
engine-driver now. They have got him in a shed by the embankment. I'll
call in again later on. Let's have one more look at you, young man."

He glanced at the cut on Gerald's forehead, noted the access of colour
in his cheeks, and nodded.

"Born to be hanged, you were," he pronounced. "You've had a marvellous
escape. I'll be in again presently. No need to worry about your friend.
He looks as though he'd got a mighty constitution. Light my lantern,
Brown. Two of you had better come with me to the shed. It's no night for
a man to be wandering about alone."

He departed, and many of the villagers with him. The landlady sat down
and began to weep.

"Such a night! Such a night!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "And
there's the doctor talks about putting the poor gentleman to bed! Why,
the roof's off the back part of the house, and not a bedroom in the
place but mine and John's, and the rain coming in there in torrents.
Such a night! It's the judgment of the Lord upon us! That's what it
is--the judgment of the Lord!"

"Judgment of the fiddlesticks!" her husband growled. "Can't you light
the fire, woman? What's the good of sitting there whining?"

"Light the fire," she repeated bitterly, "and the chimney lying out in
the road! Do you want to suffocate us all, or is the beer still in your
head? It's your evil doings, Richard Budden, and others like you, that
have brought this upon us.