Winter. Christopher Nicholson

being left alone.

      By ill chance, the weather had taken a sharp turn for the worse, and the rain was tumbling in sheets through the branches of the trees. With the assistance of Mr. Voss’s umbrella, the elderly couple hurried over the wet gravel to the taxi-cab.

      The journey ahead was a short one, the distance being little above a mile, and after crossing the bridge over the railway line the road descended into the town. The rain beat loudly on the roof of the car, and the windscreen wipers thrashed to and fro in a furious attempt to clear the water pouring over the glass. The streets were all but empty, save for a few unfortunate pedestrians who had been caught in the downpour and who scuttled for cover. It was a miserable evening. Neither the old man nor his wife said a word, but both seemed equally unenthusiastic about what lay ahead.