CHAPTER XIII.
THE MAN IN THE VERANDAH.
The mare settled down to a beautiful stride and we spun along smoothly over a road which, for a coast road, must have been well laid, or Mr.Rogers's tilbury was hung on exceptionally good springs.
We were travelling inland, for the wind blew in our faces, and I huddled myself up from it in the rug--on which a dew had fallen, making it damp and sticky.

For two miles or so we must have held on at this pace without exchanging a word, meeting neither vehicle nor pedestrian in all that distance, nor passing any; and so came to a sign-post and swerved by it into a broader road, which ran level for maybe half a mile and then began to climb.

Here Mr.Rogers eased down the mare and handed me the reins, bidding me hold them while he lit a cigar.
"We're safe enough now," said he, pulling out a pocket tinder-box: "and while I'm about it we'd better light the lamps." He slipped them from their sockets and lit the pair cleverly from the same brimstone match.

"The _Highflier_'s due about this time," he explained; "and Russell's Wagon 's another nasty thing to hit in the dark.

We're on the main road, you know." Before refixing the lamp beside him, he held it up for a good stare at me, and grinned.
"Well, you're a nice guest for a spinster at this hour, I must say! But there's no shyness about Lydia." "Is she--is this Miss Lydia unmarried ?" I made bold to ask.
"Lydia Belcher 's a woman in a thousand.