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It was such a fine hot Midsummer day at Hollowdell station, that the porter had grown tired of teasing the truck-driver's dog, and fallen fast asleep an example which the dog had tried to follow, but could not, because there was only one shady spot within the station-gates, and that had been taken possession of by the porter; so the poor dog had tried first one place, and then another, but they were all so hot and stifling, and the flies kept buzzing about him so teasingly, that he grew quite cross, and barked and snapped so at the tiresome insects, that at last he woke Jem Barnes, the porter, who got up, stretched himself, yawned very rudely and loudly, and then, looking in at the station-clock, he saw that the 2:30 train from London was nearly due, so he made up his mind not to go to sleep again until it had passed.
Sir Claude turned to a porter. "When does the train go?" The man looked up at the station-clock. "In two minutes. Monsieur est placé?" "Pas encore." "Et vos billets? vous n'avez que le temps." Then after a look at Maisie, "Monsieur veut-il que je les prenne?" the man said. Sir Claude turned back to her. "Veux-tu lieu qu'il en prenne?"
One might have surmised that it was winding hopefully if blindly toward the noble mountain peak shimmering in white splendor, mystic and wonderful, sixty miles away, but seeming in that lucent air to be brooding closely over all the varied loveliness below. Though nine o'clock had struck on the brisk little station-clock, there was still a tang of night chill left.
The sergeant took the card, looked at it, and looked at me. "Wait a minute," he said, at last, and disappeared through a door at the farther side of the room. He was gone three or four minutes, and the station-clock struck twelve as I stood there. I counted the sonorous, deliberate strokes, and then, in the silence that followed, my hands began to tremble with the suspense.
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