There are few places in a civilized country more desolate than a big, empty country railway station: such a station as that at Newmarket--an amusing, bustling sight on a race day; strangely still and deserted, even on a fine summer day, when there's nothing doing in the famous little town; and, in the depth of winter, extraordinarily forlorn.

The solitariness and the desolation were very marked on the early afternoon of New Year's Eve which saw Varick striding up and down the deserted platform waiting for Dr.Panton, and Dr.Panton's inseparable companion, a big, ugly, intelligent spaniel called Span.
Varick had more than one reason to be grateful to the young medical man with whom Fate had once thrown him into such close contact; and so this last spring, when Panton had had to be in London for a few days, Varick had taken a deal of trouble to ensure that the country doctor should have a good time.

But his own pleasure in his friend's company had been somewhat spoilt by something Panton had then thought it right to tell him.

This something was that his late wife's one-time companion, Miss Pigchalke, had gone to Redsands, and, seeking out the doctor, had tried to force him to say that poor Mrs.Varick had been ill-treated--or if not exactly ill-treated, then neglected--by her husband, during her last illness.
"I wouldn't have told you, but that I think you ought to know that the woman has an inexplicable grudge against you," he had said.
"Not inexplicable," Varick had answered quietly.

"For Julia Pigchalke first came as governess to Wyndfell Hall when my wife was ten years old, and she stayed on with her ultimately as companion--in fact as more friend than companion.