1. MARCH THE THIRTEENTH. THREE TO SIX
O'CLOCK A.M.They entered Anglebury Station in the dead, still time of early
morning, the clock over the booking-office pointing to twenty-five
minutes to three. Manston lingered on the platform and saw the
mail-bags brought out, noticing, as a pertinent pastime, the many
shabby blotches of wax from innumerable seals that had been set
upon their mouths. The guard took them into a fly, and was driven
down the road to the post-office.
It was a raw, damp, uncomfortable morning, though, as yet,
little rain was falling. Manston drank a mouthful from his flask
and walked at once away from the station, pursuing his way through
the gloom till he stood on the side of the town adjoining, at a
distance from the last house in the street of about two hun
