Nevitt had gone
on by the West of England express. The porter at the labelling
place "minded the gentleman well." He was a sharp-looking gentleman,
with a queer look about the eyes, and a dark moustache curled round
at the corners.
"Yes, yes," Guy cried eagerly, "that's him right enough. The eyes
mark the man. And where was he going to?"
"He had his things labelled," the porter said, "for Plymouth."
"And when does the next train start?" Guy inquired, all on fire.
The porter, consulting the time-table in the muddle-headed way
peculiar to railway porters, and stroking his chin with his hand
to assist cerebration, announced, after a severe internal struggle,
that the 3.45 down, slow, was the earliest train available.
There was nothing for it then, Guy perceived, but to run home to
his rooms, possessing his soul in patience, pack up a few things
in his Gladstone bag, and return at his leisure to catch the down
train thus unfavourably introduced to his critical notice.
If Guy had dared, to be sure, he might have gone straight to a
police-station, and got an inspector to telegraph along the line
to stop the thief with his booty at Basingstoke or Salisbury. But
Guy didn't dare.
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