"Yes . . . that's the one . . . the big fellow."
"Was he alone?"
"I dunno. . . . He was alone for all I know. I didn't see no one else."
Philip left him, and, outside, stood for a moment in the shelter of the platform shed, peering into the distance where the gleaming wet rails disappeared into the dimness of fog and jewel-like signal lights. And all at once he hated the Flats, the Mills, the whole Town, and then he laughed savagely: even his beloved locomotives had betrayed him by carrying Naomi off into the darkness.
There was nothing to do now. What was done was done. He was glad he hadn't gone to the police to find her. If they didn't know, it would keep the thing out of the papers for a little time, and the two of them might come back. There was only that crazy old woman in the parsonage who need be feared; it was impossible to imagine what she might do. He hadn't really thought of her until now, and, as he walked through the rain, up the hill again, to his mother's house, her horrid image kept returning to him as she stood in her greasy dressing-gown screaming at him in triumph, "I knew it would happen some day. I always told him he'd do it!"
He thought, "I never knew it was as bad as that. No one knew." It seemed to him that God would forgive a man any sin who must have suffered as the Reverend Castor.
He was no longer conscious of the downpour, for he was already as wet as if he had jumped into the brook, and as he walked, all the deadly sickness of reaction began to sweep over him. He was tired suddenly, so
