"Didn't notice," his subordinate replied, a little curtly. "Maybe it was
and maybe it wasn't. Good night!"

* * * * *

Philip Romilly sat back in the corner of his empty third-class carriage,
peering out of the window, in which he could see only the reflection of
the feeble gas-lamp. There was no doubt about it, however--they were
moving. The first stage of his journey had commenced. The blessed sense
of motion, after so long waiting, at first soothed and then exhilarated
him. In a few moments he became restless. He let down the rain-blurred
window and leaned out. The cool dampness of the night was immensely
refreshing, the rain softened his hot cheeks. He sat there, peering away
into the shadows, struggling for the sight of definite objects--a tree, a
house, the outline of a field--anything to keep the other thoughts away,
the thoughts that came sometimes like the aftermath of a grisly,
unrealisable nightmare. Then he felt chilly, drew up the window, thrust
his hands into his pockets from which he drew out a handsome cigarette
case, struck a match, and smoked with vivid appreciation of the quality
of the tobacco, examined the crest on the case as he put it away, and
finally patted with surreptitious eagerness the flat morocco letter case
in his inside pocket.

At the Junction, he made his way into the refreshment room and ordered
a long whisky and soda, which he drank in a couple of gulps. Then he
hastened to the booking office and took a first-class ticket to
Liverpool, and a few minutes later secured a seat in the long,
north-bound express which came gliding up to the side of the platform. He
spent some time in the lavatory, washing, arranging his hair,