Instead of seeking the time-tables he stood before the bookstall and ran his eye along the titles of new novels; he had half a mind to buy one of Hardy's and read himself into the temper which suited summer rambles.

But just as his hand was stretched forth, a full voice, speaking beside him, made demand for a London weekly paper.

Instantly he turned.

The tones had carried him back to Whitelaw; the face disturbed that illusion, but substituted a reality which threw him into tremor.
His involuntary gaze was met with one of equal intensity.

A man of his own years, but in splendid health and with bright eyes that looked enjoyment of life, suddenly addressed him.
'Godwin Peak--surely-- ?' 'Buckland Warricombe, no less surely.' They shook hands with vigour, laughing in each other's faces; then, after a moment's pause, Warricombe drew aside from the bookstall, for sake of privacy.
'Why did we lose sight of each other ?' he asked, flashing a glance at Godwin's costume.