another, because the original address was there and he knew Carmen's
hand; then there was a seal, which he did not think could have been
tampered with. Besides, the man had only had it for a minute or two,
and if he had opened it, would probably have taken something out
instead of putting something in. Foster decided that he was mistaken
about its size and returned it to his pocket.

Then he wanted a cigarette and took out the case he had got in the fur
coat. Since he had left the coat in Montreal, the case was the only
record of his adventure on the train, and he wondered whether he would
ever be able to restore it to its owner and speculated languidly about
the man. As the latter knew his name, it was strange that he had not
communicated with him at the Windsor, as he had promised. He had
obviously not been attacked, because there had been nothing about it in
the Canadian newspapers. The thing was puzzling, but after all it did
not concern Foster much and he thought about something else.

It was late when he arrived at Newcastle and went to an hotel. There
was fog and rain next morning, and he saw very little of the town,
which seemed filled with smoke. Taking a tram-car that carried him
past rows of dingy buildings and shops where lights twinkled, he got
out at the corner of a narrow street that ran back into the haze.
After looking at the address on the packet, he plunged into the gloom
beside a row of tall, sooty buildings. There was no pavement, and here
and there a cart stood beneath an opening in the wall. The buildings
were apparently warehouses, but some of the doors had brass plates and
lights shone in the upper windows. By and by he found the number he
wanted and entered a dirty arch, inside which a few names were painted
on the wall. Graham's was not there, but he went up the steps to
inquire at the first office he reached.