on," Girdlestone
remarked, shutting up his book.

This proved to be a small wayside station, illuminated by a single lamp,
which gave no information as to the name. They were the only passengers
who alighted, and the train rolled on for Portsmouth, leaving them with
their trunks upon the dark and narrow platform. It was a black night
with a bitter wind which carried with it a suspicion of dampness, which
might have been rain, or might have been the drift of the neighbouring
ocean. Kate was numb with the cold, and even her gaunt companion
stamped his feet and shivered as he looked about him.

"I telegraphed for a trap," said he to the guard. "Is there not one
waiting?"

"Yes, sir; if you be Mister Girdlestone, there's a trap from the _Flyin'
Bull_. Here, Carker, here's your gentleman."

At this summons a rough-looking ostler emerged into the circle of light
thrown by the single lamp and, touching his hat, announced in a surly
voice that he was the individual In question. The guard and he then
proceeded to drag the trunks to the vehicle. It was a small wagonette,
with a high seat for the driver in front.

"Where to, sir?" asked the driver, when the travellers had taken their
seats.

"To Hampton Priory. Do you know where that is?"

"Better'n two mile from here, and close to the railway line," said the
man. "There hain't been no one livin' there for two year at the least."

"We are expected and all will be ready for us," said Girdlestone.
"Go as fast as you can, for we are cold."

The driver cracked his whip, and the horse started at a brisk trot down
the dark country road.

Looking round her, Kate saw that they were passing through a large
country village, consisting of a broad main street, with a few
insignificant offshoots branching away on either side. A church stood
on one side, and on the other the village inn. The door was open and
the light shining through the red curtains of the bar parlour looked
warm and cosy. The clink of glasses and the murmur of cheerful voices
sounded from within. Kate, as she looked across, felt doubly cheerless
and lonely by the contrast. Girdlestone looked too, but with different
emotions.

"Another plague spot," he cried, jerking his head in that direction.
"In town or country it is the same. These poison-sellers are scattered
over the whole face of the land, and every one of them is a focus of
disease and misery."

"Beg your pardon, sir," the surly driver