Fynes," he said, lifting the flap of the counter and coming out.
"Do you care to come inside and wait in my private office?"

"Thank you," Mr. Hamilton Fynes answered; "I will walk up and
down the platform."

"There is a refreshment room just on the left," the
station-master remarked, ringing violently at a telephone. "I
dare say we shall get you off in less than half an hour. We will
do our best, at any rate. It's an awkward time just now to
command an absolutely clear line, but if we can once get you past
Crewe you'll be all right. Shall we fetch you from the
refreshment room when we are ready?"

"If you please," the intending passenger answered.

Mr. Hamilton Fynes discovered that place of entertainment without
difficulty, ordered for himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich,
and drew a chair close up to the small open fire, taking care,
however, to sit almost facing the only entrance to the room. He
laid his hat upon the counter, close to which he had taken up his
position, and smoothed back with his left hand his somewhat thick
black hair. He was a man, apparently of middle age, of middle
height, clean-shaven, with good but undistinguished features,
dark eyes, very clear and very bright, which showed, indeed, but
little need of the pince-nez which hung by a thin black cord from
his neck. His hat, low in the crown and of soft gray felt, would
alone have betrayed his nationality. His clothes, however, were
also American in cut. His boots were narrow and of unmistakable
shape. He ate his sandwich with suspicion, and after his first