In spite of this he broke into an uneasy run and covered the mile between his house and the station in fifteen minutes. It was a little station, crouched humbly beside the shining rails in the darkness. Beside it Michael saw the lights of a single taxi waiting for the next train.
The platform was deserted and Michael opened the door and peered into the dim waiting room. It was empty.
“That’s funny,” he muttered.
Rousing a sleepy taxi-driver, he asked if there had been anyone waiting for the train. The taxi-driver considered—yes, there had been a young man waiting, about twenty minutes ago. He had walked up and down for awhile, smoking a cigarette, and then gone away into the darkness.
“That’s funny,” repeated Michael. He made a megaphone of his hands and facing toward the woods across
