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Caterham's private secretary came to him from the other carriage and
told him that half a mile farther the line had been wrecked, and that
the rest of the journey was to be made in a motor car. Redwood descended
upon a platform lit only by a hand lantern and swept by the cool night
breeze. The quiet of that derelict, wood-set, weed-embedded suburb--for
all the inhabitants had taken refuge in London at the outbreak of
yesterday's conflict--became instantly impressive. His conductor took
him down the steps to where a motor car was waiting with blazing
lights--the only lights to be seen--handed him over to the care of the
driver and bade him farewell.
"
You will do your best for us," he said, with an imitation of his
master's manner, as he held Redwood's hand.
So soon as Redwood could be wrapped about they started out into the
night. At one moment they stood still, and then the motor car was
rushing softly and swiftly down the station incline. They turned one
corner and another, followed the windings of a lane of villas, and then
before them stretched the road. The motor droned up to its topmost
speed, and the black night swept past them. Everything was very dark
under the starlight, and the whole world crouched mysteriously and was
gone without a sound. Not a breath stirred the flying things by the
wayside; the deserted, pallid white villas on either hand, with their
black unlit windows, reminded him of a noiseless procession of skulls.
The driver beside him was a silent man, or stricken into silence by the
conditions of his journey. He answered Redwood's brief questions in
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