Part 8 (1/2)

He took it; glanced at it by the light of his little lantern; gave it back; looked, as I fancied, somewhat sharply at my fellow-traveller, and disappeared.

”He did not ask for yours,” I said with some surprise.

”They never do,” replied Mr. Dwerrihouse. ”They all know me; and, of course, I travel free.”

”Blackwater! Blackwater!” cried the porter, running along the platform beside us, as we glided into the station.

Mr. Dwerrihouse pulled out his deed-box, put his travelling-cap in his pocket, resumed his hat, took down his umbrella, and prepared to be gone.

”Many thanks, Mr. Langford, for your society,” he said, with old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesy. ”I wish you a good evening.”

”Good evening,” I replied, putting out my hand.

But he either did not see it, or did not choose to see it, and, slightly lifting his hat, stepped out upon the platform. Having done this, he moved slowly away, and mingled with the departing crowd.

Leaning forward to watch him out of sight, I trod upon something which proved to be a cigar-case. It had fallen, no doubt, from the pocket of his water-proof coat, and was made of dark morocco leather, with a silver monogram upon the side. I sprang out of the carriage just as the guard came up to lock me in.

”Is there one minute to spare?” I asked eagerly. ”The gentleman who travelled down with me from town has dropped his cigar-case; he is not yet out of the station!”

”Just a minute and a half, sir,” replied the guard. ”You must be quick.”

I dashed along the platform as fast as my feet could carry me.

It was a large station, and Mr. Dwerrihouse had by this time got more than half-way to the farther end.

I, however, saw him distinctly, moving slowly with the stream.

Then, as I drew nearer, I saw that he had met some friend,--that they were talking as they walked,--that they presently fell back somewhat from the crowd, and stood aside in earnest conversation.

I made straight for the spot where they were waiting. There was a vivid gas-jet just above their heads, and the light fell full upon their faces. I saw both distinctly,--the face of Mr. Dwerrihouse and the face of his companion. Running, breathless, eager as I was, getting in the way of porters and pa.s.sengers, and fearful every instant lest I should see the train going on without me, I yet observed that the new-comer was considerably younger and shorter than the director, that he was sandy-haired, mustachioed, small-featured, and dressed in a close-cut suit of Scotch tweed.

I was now within a few yards of them. I ran against a stout gentleman,--I was nearly knocked down by a luggage-truck,--I stumbled over a carpet-bag,--I gained the spot just as the driver's whistle warned me to return.

To my utter stupefaction they were no longer there. I had seen them but two seconds before,--and they were gone! I stood still. I looked to right and left. I saw no sign of them in any direction.

It was as if the platform had gaped and swallowed them.

”There were two gentlemen standing here a moment ago,” I said to a porter at my elbow; ”which way can they have gone?”

”I saw no gentlemen, sir,” replied the man.

The whistle shrilled out again. The guard, far up the platform, held up his arm, and shouted to me to ”Come on!”

”If you're going on by this train, sir,” said the porter, ”you must run for it.”

I did run for it, just gained the carriage as the train began to move, was shoved in by the guard, and left breathless and bewildered, with Mr. Dwerrihouse's cigar-case still in my hand.

It was the strangest disappearance in the world. It was like a transformation trick in a pantomime. They were there one moment,--palpably there, talking, with the gaslight full upon their faces; and the next moment they were gone. There was no door near,--no window,--no staircase. It was a mere slip of barren platform, tapestried with big advertis.e.m.e.nts. Could anything be more mysterious?

It was not worth thinking about; and yet, for my life, I could not help pondering upon it,--pondering, wondering, conjecturing, turning it over and over in my mind, and beating my brains for a solution of the enigma. I thought of it all the way from Blackwater to Clayborough. I thought of it all the way from Clayborough to Dumbleton, as I rattled along the smooth highway in a trim dog-cart drawn by a splendid black mare, and driven by the silentest and dapperest of East Anglian grooms.

We did the nine miles in something less than an hour, and pulled up before the lodge-gates just as the church-clock was striking half past seven. A couple of minutes more, and the warm glow of the lighted hall was flooding out upon the gravel, a hearty grasp was on my hand, and a clear jovial voice was bidding me ”Welcome to Dumbleton.”

”And now, my dear fellow,” said my host, when the first greeting was over, ”you have no time to spare. We dine at eight, and there are people coming to meet you; so you must just get the dressing business over as quickly as may be. By the way, you will meet some acquaintances. The Biddulphs are coming, and Prendergast (Prendergast, of the Skirmishers) is staying in the house. Adieu! Mrs. Jelf will be expecting you in the drawing-room.”