and a straw hat on which were the colours of a famous cricket club.

The inspector watched them curiously. "Lost his way, I should
think," he observed.

The station-master nodded. "It looks like the young man who missed
the boat train," he remarked. "Perhaps he has come to beg a lift."

The young man in question made steady progress up the platform.
His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, and his
forehead was contracted in a frown. As he approached more closely,
he singled out Mr. John P. Dunster, and motioning his porter to wait,
crossed to the edge of the track and addressed him.

"Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?"

Mr. John P. Dunster turned at once and faced his questioner. He
did so without haste--with a certain deliberation, in fact--yet
his eyes were suddenly bright and keen. He was neatly dressed,
with the quiet precision which seems as a rule to characterise the
travelling American. He was apparently of a little less than
middle-age, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, with every appearance
of physical strength. He seemed like a man on wires, a man on the
alert, likely to miss nothing.

"Are you Mr. John P. Dunster?" the youth asked.

"I carry my visiting-card in my hand, sir," the other replied,
swinging his dressing-case around. "My name is John P. Dunster."