But as it rumbled over the river bridge and slowed down before the
terminus his vitality suddenly revived. He was a business man,
and there was now something for him to do.

After a rapid farewell to the bagman, he found a porter and hustled
his box out of the van in the direction of the left-luggage office.
Spies, summoned by Dobson's telegram, were, he was convinced, watching
his every movement, and he meant to see that they missed nothing.
He received his ticket for the box, and slowly and ostentatiously
stowed it away in his pack. Swinging the said pack on his arm, he
sauntered through the entrance hall to the row of waiting taxi-cabs,
and selected the oldest and most doddering driver. He deposited
the pack inside on the seat, and then stood still as if struck
with a sudden thought.

"I breakfasted terrible early," he told the driver. "I think I'll
have a bite to eat. Will you wait?"

"Ay," said the man, who was reading a grubby sheet of newspaper.
"I'll wait as long as ye like, for it's you that pays."

Dickson left his pack in the cab and, oddly enough for a careful man,
he did not shut the door. He re-entered the station, strolled to the
bookstall, and bought a Glasgow Herald. His steps then tended to the
refreshment-room, where he ordered a cup of coffee and two Bath buns,
and seated himself at a small table. There he was soon immersed
in the financial news, and though he sipped his coffee he left
the buns untasted. He took out a penknife and cut various extracts
from the Herald, bestowing them carefully in his pocket. An observer
would have seen an elderly gentleman absorbed in market quotations.