The railway station at Detton Magna presented, if possible, an even more dreary appearance than earlier in the day, as the time drew near that night for the departure of the last train northwards.

Its long strip of flinty platform was utterly deserted.

Around the three flickering gas-lamps the drizzling rain fell continuously.

The weary porter came yawning out of his lamp room into the booking office, where the station master sat alone, his chair turned away from the open wicket window to the smouldering embers of the smoky fire.
"No passengers to-night, seemingly," the latter remarked to his subordinate.
"Not a sign of one," was the reply.

"That young chap who came down from London on a one-day return excursion, hasn't gone back, either.