Dunham listened as long as his ear could catch the sound, then a strange
desolation settled down upon him. How was it that a few short hours ago he
had known nothing, cared nothing, about this stranger? And now her going
had left things blank enough! It was foolish, of course--just highly
wrought nerves over this most extraordinary occurrence. Life had
heretofore run in such smooth, conventional grooves as to have been almost
prosaic; and now to be suddenly plunged into romance and mystery
unbalanced him for the time. To-morrow, probably, he would again be able
to look sane living in the face, and perhaps call himself a fool for his
most unusual interest in this chance acquaintance; but just at this moment
when he had parted from her, when the memory of her lovely face and pure
eyes lingered with him, when her bravery and fear were both so fresh in
his mind, and the very sound of her music was still in his brain, he
simply could not without a pang turn back again to life which contained no
solution of her mystery, no hope of another vision of her face.
The little station behind him was closed, though a light over the desk
shone brightly through its front window and the telegraph sounder was
clicking busily. The operator had gone over the hill with an important
telegram, leaving the station door locked. The platform was windy and
cheerless, with a view of a murky swamp, and the sound of deep-throated
inhabitants croaking out a late fall concert. A rusty-throated cricket in
a crack of the platform wailed a plaintive note now and then, and off
beyond the swamp, in the edge of the wood, a screech-owl hooted.
Turning impatiently from the darkness, Dunham sought the bright window, in
front of which lay a newspaper. He could read the large headlines of a
column--no more, for the paper was upside down, and a bunch of bill-heads
lay partly across it. It read: