answered; and added, moved to some expiatory frankness, “It is odd, by the bye, M. le Baron, that our second meeting should associate itself with the same friend. I am going down to-morrow, as it happens, on a visit to his people.” 

 “No,” he said: “really? That is odd, indeed.” 

 He shook hands with me, and left the room. Standing at the window a moment after, I saw him going Citywards along the Strand, looking, with his short thick legs and tailed morning coat, for all the world like a fat jaunty turtle on its way to Birch’s. 

 Now I fancied I had seen the last of the man; but I was curiously mistaken. When I arrived at Waterloo Station the next day, there, rather to my stupefaction, he stood as if awaiting me, and at the barrier—my barrier—leading to the platform for my train, the two o’clock Bournemouth express. We passed through almost together. 

 “Hullo!” I said. “Going south?” 

 He nodded genially. “I thought, with your permission, we might be travelling companions.” 

 “With pleasure, of course. But I go no further than the first stop—Winton.” 

 “Nor I.” 

 “O, indeed? A delectable old city. You are putting up there?” 

 “No, O no! My destination, like yours, is Wildshott.” 

 “Wildshott! You know the Kennetts then?” 

 “I know Sir Calvin. His son, your friend, I have never met. It is odd, as you said, that our visits should coincide.” 

 “But you must have known yesterday—if you did not know in Paris. Why in the name of goodness did you not——” I began; and came to a rather petulant stop. This secrecy was simply intolerable. One was pulled up by it at every turn. 

 “Did I not?” he said blandly. “No, now I come to think of it—— O, Louis, is that an empty compartment? Put the rugs in, then, and the papers.” 

 He addressed a little vivid-eyed French valet, who stood awaiting his coming at an opened door of a carriage. Le Sage climbed in with a breathing effort, and I followed sulkily. Who on earth, or what on earth, was the man? 

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