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At eleven minutes past five Dick Bellamy stopped Melchard's car outside the booking-office of somnolent Harthborough's dead-alive station the junction of the single-line track to Whitebay and its bathing machines with the double-track branch of the G.N.R. from York to Caterscliff. A hopeless porter languished against the hot bricks of the doorway.
There we might run into Melchard plus his picket. The railway's at Harthborough, so Harthborough's got it." "And here," said the girl, "is the Drovers' Track." Before they knew it, they had stepped into a way wider and more clearly marked than the path which had brought them across the base of the triangle of which the apex was the white stone by the hawthorns they had never seen.
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