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Updated: May 21, 2025
"I'm going to a God-forsaken place in Cornwall called Trehenna," said he. "That's odd; so am I," croaked Professor Biggleswade. He was a little, untidy man with round spectacles, a fringe of greyish beard and a weak, rasping voice, and he knew more of Assyriology than any man, living or dead.
"I never wanted to know the modern East," returned the Professor. "What is there in it of interest compared with the mighty civilizations that have gone before?" McCurdie took a pull from his flask. "I'm glad I thought of having a refill at Plymouth," said he. At last, after many stops at little lonely stations they arrived at Trehenna.
The windows steamed, but here and there through a wiped patch of pane a white world was revealed. The snow was falling. As they passed through Westbury, McCurdie looked mechanically for the famous white horse carved into the chalk of the down; but it was not visible beneath the thick covering of snow. "It'll be just like this all the way to Gehenna Trehenna, I mean," said McCurdie. Doyne nodded.
The express was held up for an hour, and when it was permitted to proceed, instead of thundering on, it went cautiously, subject to continual stoppings. It arrived at Plymouth two hours late. The travellers learned that they had missed the connection on which they had counted and that they could not reach Trehenna till nearly ten o'clock.
But that only lasted a comparatively short time, for soon they were set down at a desolate, shelterless wayside junction, dumped in the midst of a hilly snow-covered waste, where they went through another weary wait for another dismal local train that was to carry them to Trehenna. And in this train there were no hot-water cans, so that the compartment was as cold as death.
The guard opened the door and they stepped out on to the snow-covered platform. An oil lamp hung from the tiny pent-house roof that, structurally, was Trehenna Station. They looked around at the silent gloom of white undulating moorland, and it seemed a place where no man lived and only ghosts could have a bleak and unsheltered being. A porter came up and helped the guard with the luggage.
McCurdie fretted and shook his fist in the direction of Trehenna. "And when we get there we have still a twenty miles' motor drive to Foullis Castle. It's a fool name and we're fools to be going there." "I shall die of bronchitis," wailed Professor Biggleswade. "A man dies when it is appointed for him to die," said Lord Doyne, in his tired way; and he went on smoking long black cigars.
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