on a magazine and some weekly papers. Then, with ten minutes to spare, I went off in search of Ukridge. 

 I found him on platform six. The eleven-twenty was already alongside, and presently I observed my porter cleaving a path towards me with the suit-case and golf-bag. 

 "Here you are!" shouted Ukridge vigorously. "Good for you. Thought you were going to miss it." 

 I shook hands with the smiling Mrs. Ukridge. 

 "I've got a carriage and collared two corner seats. Millie goes down in another. She doesn't like the smell of smoke when she's travelling. Hope we get the carriage to ourselves. Devil of a lot of people here this morning. Still, the more people there are in the world, the more eggs we shall sell. I can see with half an eye that all these blighters are confirmed egg-eaters. Get in, sonnie. I'll just see the missis into her carriage, and come back to you." 

 I entered the compartment, and stood at the door, looking out in the faint hope of thwarting an invasion of fellow-travellers. Then I withdrew my head suddenly and sat down. An elderly gentleman, accompanied by a pretty girl, was coming towards me. It was not this type of fellow traveller whom I had hoped to keep out. I had noticed the girl at the booking office. She had waited by the side of the queue while the elderly gentleman struggled gamely for the tickets, and I had had plenty of opportunity of observing her appearance. I had debated with myself whether her hair should rightly be described as brown or golden. I had finally decided on brown. Once only had I met her eyes, and then only for an instant. They might be blue. They might be grey. I could not be certain. Life is full of these problems. 

 "This seems to be tolerably empty, my dear Phyllis," said the elderly gentleman, coming to the door of the compartment and looking in. "You're sure you don't object to a smoking-carriage?" 

 "Oh no, father. Not a bit." 

 "Then I think ..." said the elderly gentleman, getting in. 

 The inflection of his voice suggested the Irishman. It was not a brogue. There were no strange words. But the general effect was Irish. 

 "That's good," he said, settling himself and pulling out a cigar case. 

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