om Waterloo, or what
was left of it, rumbled in the wake of three other coaches--country
cousins, these, that had never seen London--up the long blue-brown
valley at the end of which lay the station of Mockery Dale. It was
tremendously hot, for the afternoon sun was raking the valley from stem
to stern, and since what little breeze there was blew from the
south-east, the fitful puffs passed over the dip in the moorland and
left it windless. This suited the butterflies admirably. Indeed, from
all the insects an unmistakable hum of approval of the atmosphere rose
steadily. Anthony could not hear it, any more than he could hear the
lark which was singing merrily at a vast height above the shining
rails, for the rumble of the composite train, but he saw and marked the
sleepy smile of the valley, noted with satisfaction its comfortable air
of contentment to be no part or parcel of a frantic world, and held his
terrier Patch to the dusty window, that he might witness the antics of
a couple of forest ponies, which were galloping away from the train and
kicking up contemptuous heels at the interloper in an ecstasy of idle
menaces, clown-like in their absurdity.

Patch saw the impudent frolic and, panting with excitement, evinced an
immediate desire to leave the carriage and deal summarily with the
irreverence, but a second later the sudden demands of a French
bull-dog, sitting pert in a dog-cart which at a level-crossing was
awaiting the passage of the train, superseded the ponies' claim upon
his displeasure. The alien was scolded explosively.

A moment later the train had pulled into the station, and Lyveden and
Patch got out. They were, it appeared, the only passengers to descend.

The only vehicle outside the station was a Ford car, rather the worse
for wear. Sitting as drowsily at the wheel as the exigencies of the
driver's seat would permit was a man of some thirty summers. From his
appearance he might have been a member of the club to which, till
recently, Anthony had belonged. His soft felt hat was cocked
extravagantly over one eye to keep the sun at bay, and his country suit
was, fortunately, of a cloth which age cannot wither nor custom stale,
but whose like has not been woven since the ill-favoured and
lean-fleshed kine came up out of the river of War.

As Lyveden appeared, carrying his luggage and preceded by Patch--

"No need to ask if you're for The Shrubbery," said the driver of the
Ford lazily. "Sh