London on a one-day return excursion, hasn't gone back, either. That'll
do his ticket in."

The outside door was suddenly opened and closed. The sound of footsteps
approaching the ticket window was heard. A long, white hand was thrust
through the aperture, a voice was heard from the invisible outside.

"Third to Detton Junction, please."

The station-master took the ticket from a little rack, received the exact
sum he demanded, swept it into the till, and resumed his place before the
fire. The porter, with the lamp in his hand, lounged out into the
booking-hall. The prospective passenger, however, was nowhere in sight.
He looked back into the office.

"Was that Jim Spender going up to see his barmaid again?" he asked his
superior.

The station master yawned drowsily.

"Didn't notice," he answered. "What an old woman you're getting, George!
Want to know everybody's business, don't you?"

The porter withdrew, a little huffed. When, a few minutes later, the
train drew in, he even avoided ostentatiously a journey to the far end of
the platform to open the door for the solitary passenger who was standing
there. He passed up the train and slammed the door without even glancing
in at the window. Then he stood and watched the red lights disappear.

"Was it Jim?" the station master asked him, on their way out.