fetch. The directors of the new railway, after a stormy meeting,
decided on offering (by means of a Station) a last chance of revival to
the dying town. The town had not vitality enough left to be grateful;
the railway stimulant produced no effect. Of all his colleagues in
Great Britain and Ireland, the station-master at Honeybuzzard was the
idlest man--and this, as he said to the unemployed porter, through no
want of energy on his own part.

Late on a rainy autumn afternoon, the slow train left one traveller at
the Station. He got out of a first-class carriage; he carried an
umbrella and a travelling-bag; and he asked his way to the best inn.
The station-master and the porter compared notes. One of them said:
"Evidently a gentleman." The other added: "What can he possibly want
here?"

The stranger twice lost his way in the tortuous old streets of the town
before he reached the inn. On giving his orders, it appeared that he
wanted three things: a private room, something to eat, and, while the
dinner was being cooked, materials for writing a letter.

Answering her daughter's questions downstairs, the landlady described
her guest as a nice-looking man dressed in deep mourning. "Young, my
dear, with beautiful dark brown hair, and a grand beard, and a sweet
sorrowful look. Ah, his eyes would tell anybody that his black clothes
are not a mere sham. Whether married or single, of course I can't say.
But I noticed the name on his travelling-bag. A distinguished name in
my opinion--Hugh Mountjoy. I wonder what he'll order to drink when he
has his dinner? What a mercy it will be if we can get rid of another
bottle of the sour French wine!"