His quest had been futile. The woman had disappeared
as completely as though she had actually floated away into that pit of
darkness beyond the far end of the platform. He had drawn but one
conclusion. This place--Graham--was her home; undoubtedly friends had
been at the station to meet her; even now she might be telling them, or
a husband, or a grown-up son, of the strange fellow who had stared at
her in such a curious fashion. Disappointment in not finding her had
brought a reaction. He had an inward and uncomfortable feeling of having
been very silly, and of having allowed his imagination to get the better
of his common sense. He had persuaded himself to believe that she had
been in very great distress. He had acted honestly and with chivalric
intentions. And yet, after what had passed between him and Father Roland
in the smoking compartment--and in view of his failure to establish a
proof of his own convictions--he was determined to keep this particular
event of the night to himself.
A loud voice began to announce that the moment of departure had arrived,
and as the passengers began scrambling back into their coaches, Father
Roland led the way to the baggage car.
"They're going to let us ride with the dunnage so there won't be any
mistake or time lost when we get to Thoreau's," he said.
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