At nine o'clock he started out.
The rain drove so fiercely from the northwest,--the very direction in which they were traveling,--that enjoyment of the scenery was impossible.
Nor could any pleasure be got out of conversation with the man who drove him.

Rain, rain, that was all; and the splash of mud over the wheels which turned all too slowly for his comfort.

And there were to be ten miles of this.

Naturally he turned to his thoughts and they were all of her.
Why had he not known her better before linking his fate to hers?
Why had he never encouraged her to talk to him more about herself and her early life?
Had he but done so, he might now have some clew to the mystery devouring him.

He might know why so rich and independent a woman had chosen this remote town on an inaccessible road, for the completion of an act which was in itself a mystery.