The sun was shining high in the heavens as McTaggart crossed the station yard to the Railway Inn of the little town that lay in the trough of the crumpled hills.
The straggling street, with its poor shops, curving away to the left, was void of life. Not a soul stirred; it might have been a deserted village.
He walked briskly into the bar, where a man in shirt sleeves dozed on a stool behind the counter and woke up with a sudden start at the sight of a stranger.
"Are you the landlord?" asked McTaggart.
"No"—the man stared at him—"he's away, gone to the meeting."
"Well—I want a conveyance at once. I see you keep a livery stable."
"Can't be done," said the man slowly—"there's no carriages left, whatever."
McTaggart frowned. "Where can I get one?"
"Nowheres"—the other smiled sourly. He
