Derrick felt strangely drawn towards the old man, but told himself that it was because Mr.Clendon was a friend of Celia's--Derrick had already learned to call her 'Celia' in his mind.
Then the fact that she was librarian to Lord Sutcombe recurred to him.
It was a strange coincidence, one of the strangest; and as he faced it, Derrick's intention to go straight to the Hall and ask for Celia became changed.

He did not want to meet the Sutcombes: it was just possible that Heyton and Miriam would be there; and most certainly he did not want to meet them.

He uttered a groan of impatience: he would not be able to go to the Hall; he would have to find some means of meeting her elsewhere; every moment of delay, every moment that stood between him and the sight of her, assumed the length of years.

With his brows knit, and his heart in a state of rebellion, he got out at the little station and looked round him wistfully, irresolutely.
There was a fly at the station steps, but he was in too much of a fever to ride in a crawling vehicle, and he inquired of a sleepy porter the direction of the nearest inn.
"There's no inn here, sir," said the man.

"You see, this is really only the station for the Hall; but you'll find a small kind of place in the village farther on; it's called Fleckfield; it's rather more than a couple of miles." Derrick gave his small portmanteau to the flyman and told him to drive there, and he himself set out walking.
Climbing a hill at a little distance from the station, he caught sight of the tower of a big house and knew that it must be Thexford Hall.