had not seen for four years.

Though she paid no great attention to them the surroundings had a
depressing effect on her. There was, however, very little to see. The
mass of the great elevators that were silhouetted against a lowering
sky, the little cluster of houses, and the sea of churned-up mire
between them and the track comprised Clermont. There appeared to be no
station except a big water tank and a rather unsightly shed, about which
stood a group of blurred and shapeless figures. It seemed very cold, and
Agatha shivered as she felt the raw wind strike through her.

One of the figures detached itself from the rest and grew clearer. The
man wore an old skin coat spattered with flakes of mire, and his long
boots were covered with clots of mud. His fur cap looked greasy, and the
fur had been rubbed off it in patches. But while Agatha noticed these
things it was Hawtrey's face that struck her most distinctly, and she
became conscious of an astonishment which was mixed with vague
misgivings as she gazed at it, for it had subtly changed since she had
last seen it. The joyous sparkle that she remembered had gone out of the
eyes. They were harder, bolder, than they used to be. The mouth was
slack--it looked almost sensual--and the man's whole personality seemed
to have grown coarser. As she thrust the disconcerting fancies from her
the car stopped.

[Illustration: "SHE WAS CONSCIOUS OF A CERTAIN SHRINKING FROM HIS
EMBRACE" (Page 107)]

In another moment Hawtrey sprang up on the platform, and his arms were
about her. That brought the blood to her face, but she felt none of the
thrill that she had expected. Indeed, she was conscious of a certain
shrinking from his embrace. He must have lifted her down, for, when she
was next aware of the presence of the friends with whom she had
traveled, she stood beside the track with Mrs. Hastings, a man whom she
supposed to be Mr. Hastings, Winifred and Wyllard about her. Another man
also was standing close by, apparently waiting until they noticed him.
He was covered with mire, his skin coat was very dilapidated, and Agatha
thought that his boots never had been cleaned. His hair, which had
evidently been badly cut, straggled out from under his old fur cap.

Gregory apparently explained something to Mrs. Hastings. "No," he said,
"I'm sorry it can't be for another week. Horribly unfortunate. It seems
they've sent the Methodist on down the line, and we'll have to wait for
the Episc