Anthony Luttrell caught a slow local train at Withstead—the sort of train that serves little country places all over England. It slowly from station to station, sometimes taking what appeared to be an unnecessary rest at a signal box as well. It finally reached Maxton ten minutes late, missing the London express and leaving Anthony Luttrell with a two hours’ wait.  
Waiting just at present was about as congenial an occupation as being racked. He walked up and down with a dragging, restless step, and tried unsuccessfully to shut off his torturing thoughts behind a safety curtain. The time dragged intolerably. Presently he left the platform and went up on to the bridge which ran from one side of the station to the other. Here he began his pacing again, stopping every now and then to watch a train come in or a train go out. From the bridge one could see all the platforms.
 
 
When an express rushed through, the whole structure shook and clouds of white steam out everything. It was when the steam was clearing away, and the roar of the train was dying down, that Anthony noticed another local running in to the Withstead platform. He over the rail and watched the passengers get out—just a handful. There was a young woman with two children, two farmers, three or four nondescript women, and a big man with a suit-case. Anthony looked at the big man and went on looking at him. Something about him seemed familiar. The man came along the platform and began to mount the steps that led up to the bridge. Half-way up he put down his suit-case, took off his hat for a moment as if to cool himself, and stood there looking up. Then he replaced his hat, shifted the suit-case to the other hand, and came up the rest of the steps. He seemed hot.
 
He passed Anthony and went down the steps on to the London platform. Anthony followed him.
 
When the big man stood still and looked up, eight years were suddenly wiped out. Memory is a queer thing, and plays queer tricks. What Anthony’s memory did was to set him down in the year 1912, in the gallery of a hall in Chicago. There was a packed and rather audience. There was a big man on the platform, a big man who seemed hot. His speech was, in fact, of a inflammatory nature to make any one feel hot. It breathed fire and fury. Its rolling must have involved a good deal of physical . Suddenly, after a period, the speaker stopped and looked up at the gallery for applause. It came like a veritable . The meeting was subsequently broken up by the police.
 
Anthony remembered that the speaker’s name was Molloy. If Mr. Molloy had come from Withstead, it occurred to Anthony that his destination would probably be of interest.
 
The London train was due in ten minutes. When it came in, Molloy got into a third-class carriage, and Anthony followed his example.
 
 
It was at seven-thirty on Sunday morning that Mrs. March’s cook, who was the hall, was given what she afterwards described as a turn by the arrival of an odd-looking man who would give no name and insisted on seeing her master.
 
“Awful he looked with that ’orrid scar and his ’air that wild, and not giving me a chance to shut the door in his face, for he pushes in the moment I got it open—that’s what give me the worst turn of all—and walks into the dining-room as bold as , and says, ‘I want to see Captain March—and be quick, please.’”
 
When Henry came into the dining-room he shut the door behind him very quickly and looked as if he also had had a turn.
 
“Good Lord, Tony, what’s happened?” he said.
 
“Nothing,” said Anthony, with .
 
“Then in Heaven’s name, why are you here?”
 
“I’m through, that’s all. You can’t say I didn’t give notice.”
 
“It’s not a question of what I say, it’s what Piggy’ll say.”
 
“Oh, I’ve got a for Piggy. I’ve been doing the faithful sleuth. I’ve trailed a man from Withstead to a highly genteel boarding-house in South Kensington; and as I last saw the gentleman addressing an I. W. W. meeting in Chicago, I imagine Piggy might be interested.”
 
“Who was it?” said Henry quickly.
 
“Molloy.”
 
“You’re sure?”
 
“Absolutely.”
 
“Good man. You’re in luck. Molloy, under the interesting of Bernier, has just been selling the Government Formula ‘A.’ He was trailed over here with the swag and then lost sight of. For a dead cert he’s been to Luttrell Marches by the back way and seen Ember.”
 
Anthony turned away.
 
“There’s the devil to pay down there,” he said.... “No, no, the girl’s all right.... This is something I ought to have told you when you were down. I ought to have told you the whole thing. I couldn’t bring myself to.”
 
“Sit down, Tony. What is it?”
 
“No, I can’t sit.” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out. His hands made restless movements. He , keeping his back to Henry:
 
“You didn’t go through all the passages?”
 
“No, I was going to to-night.”
 
“I ought to have told you. The big place under the terrace, you know—they’ve turned it into a laboratory. Molloy may have been working there, for all I know; he had the name of an expert chemist.”
 
“Yes, go on.”
 
“You’d have found it yourself to-night, but I couldn’t let you go blundering in unwarned. Ember might be there—any one might be there. It’s damnable, Henry, but I believe she’s up to her neck in it.”
 
Henry was silent. There seemed to be nothing to say. He also believed that Raymond Heritage was up to her neck in whatever secret enterprise was being developed at Luttrell Marches. He remembered the passion in her voice when she said, “I should like to smash it all,” and he remembered how she had sung, “Would we not shatter it to bits, and then re-mould it nearer to the heart’s desire?” Whatever the thing was, he believed she was in it up to her neck............