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. And,
within those walls, was the girl he loved! He set his teeth and strode
on, resentful of every yard that took him from her instead of to her.

A signpost directed him to Fleckfield, and presently he came to the
village and to the little inn in the middle of the single street. It was
a rustic looking place, with the usual bench and table outside it; and
on the former was seated a young fellow in a knicker-bocker suit. He was
writing busily on a pad which rested on his knee, and he looked up with
an absent, far-away expression in his eyes as Derrick strode in upon his
solitude.