"Yes; but we don't want a row. It is not as though there was another
conveyance he could take."

"All right. I suppose we shall have to put up with the brute," Kelson
assented grudgingly. "But I hate being bounced like this."

Gifford took a step to the carriage-door. "I think we can all three pack
in," he said civilly.

"I'll take the front seat, if you like," the stranger said, without,
however, showing much inclination to move.

"Oh, no; stay where you are," Gifford answered. "I fancy I am the
smallest of the three; I shall be quite comfortable there. Come
along, Harry."

With no very amiable face Kelson got in and took the vacant seat by the
stranger. His attitude was not conducive to geniality, and so for a while
there was silence. At length as they turned from the station approach on
to the main road the stranger spoke. His deep-toned voice had a musical
ring in it, yet somehow to Gifford's way of thinking it was detestable.
Perhaps it was the speaker's rather aggressive and, to a man,
objectionable personality, which made it seem so.

"I am sorry to inconvenience you," he said, more with an air of saying
the right thing than from any real touch of regret. "On an occasion like
this they ought to provide more conveyances. But country towns are
hopeless."