He let down the rain-blurred window and leaned out.

The cool dampness of the night was immensely refreshing, the rain softened his hot cheeks.

He sat there, peering away into the shadows, struggling for the sight of definite objects--a tree, a house, the outline of a field--anything to keep the other thoughts away, the thoughts that came sometimes like the aftermath of a grisly, unrealisable nightmare.

Then he felt chilly, drew up the window, thrust his hands into his pockets from which he drew out a handsome cigarette case, struck a match, and smoked with vivid appreciation of the quality of the tobacco, examined the crest on the case as he put it away, and finally patted with surreptitious eagerness the flat morocco letter case in his inside pocket.
At the Junction, he made his way into the refreshment room and ordered a long whisky and soda, which he drank in a couple of gulps.

Then he hastened to the booking office and took a first-class ticket to Liverpool, and a few minutes later secured a seat in the long, north-bound express which came gliding up to the side of the platform.