It was six o'clock on a raw October morning, and the cross Channel boat had just deposited its cargo of pale and dishevelled passengers at Newhaven. Cyril Crichton, having seen his servant place his bags in a first-class compartment, gazed gloomily at the scene before him. It was the first time in three years that he had set foot on his native shore and the occasion seemed invested with a certain solemnity.…
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