for a stroll up the platform, determined
that if any dwarf, or giant, or other strange
monster, arrived by the train, it should
not depart unseen by me. I half expected
to find Mr. Darke, waiting for the train;
but he was not to be seen. True to
its time, the train crawled slowly into the
station; and, in another moment, the platform
was flooded with those strangely attired
individuals, whose business or pleasure induces
them to fly by night. No dwarf, nor giant,
nor other strange monster. Only one
passenger for Newstone; all the others booked
through, as was evident from their frantic
struggles to find their seats, the moment the
bell clashed out its warning note. And
this one passenger? A slim gentleman,
stylishly dressed. Young, without whiskers,
but with a long fair moustache, which
he was fond of stroking with his exquisitely
gloved thumb and finger. He alighted
jauntily from a first-class carriage, smiled
amiably on the porter, who touched his cap,
took up his small black portmanteau,
gave one hurried anxious glance round,
broke into a smile again, swaggered slowly
down the platform, and, pushing through the
heavy folding-doors, emerged into the street.
Some swell from London come to spend
Christmas with his friends, I said to myself.
But, where can he be going to at this time
of the morning? None of the inns will be
open for above an hour.

Without waiting to consider whether it
was any business of mine, I pushed through
the folding-doors after the traveller. He
was walking slowly across the little square
in front of the station, looking from side
to side as if not knowing which road
to take. Suddenly a dark figure glided out
from behind some projection, and advanced
towards him. I could hear the murmur oi
a few words. Then, the stranger took the
portmanteau from the traveller's hand, and
they went on together at a rapid pace into
the town. All this I saw by the light ot
the station-lamps. When the two figures
got beyond their influence and passed out of
view in the denser darkness beyond,
impelled by a vague feeling of curiosity, I drew
my coat closer round me, and set off after
them at a stealthy pace, taking the darker
side of the square as I went. I had not far
to follow. They passed into High Street,
and stopped opposite number thirty-nine.
A moment more, and they were both inside
the house, and the door was shut; another
moment, and I saw the light shining
from Mr. Darke's room in the second-floor
front.

Having no expectation of seeing anything
more, I turned back to the office, and there,
bending over a jovial fire, fell gradually into
a doze, in which Mr. Darke the
traveller, Cary a black dwarf, and Binks the
draper, were all mingled ia a fantastic
drama, revolving endlessly in my weary
brain. What had the telegraphic message
do with the handsome traveller? I
sleepily kept asking myself, at intervals of
a few minutes; but without troubling myself
to find an answer. Suddenly, a new light burst
upon me. I started up, thoroughly awake;
and, tearing open the despatch-book, read
over again the first part of the message:
"Lemonfingers starts by the mail to-night."
Well, what has that to do with the handsome
traveller? Why, this: don't the traveller
wear a pair of tightly-fitting lemon-coloured
gloves? and wasn't the outside seam of the
first finger of the right-hand glove burst
open? This I had noticed as he stroked
his moustache. But, even supposing the
traveller to be the Lemonfingers of the message,
what about the black dwarf? There was no
black dwarf. He was alone. Alone? Yes;—
but, had he not with him. a small black
portmanteau, of which he seemed to take particular
care, refusing to let the porter so much as
take it out of the carriage for him? A
theory, ingenious, but improbable, I
remarked to myself, as I put out the gas and
drew up the blind, to admit the struggling
day.

My duty was over at eight o'clock. The
London train was about to start as I went
up the platform on my way home. Passing
a group of people standing near a
carriage-door, I was suddenly startled by
a deep gruff voice exclaiming to some
one: "We shall be off in half a minute
more."—"I would pick that voice from a
thousand as Mr. Darke's!" I exclaimed
under my breath, as I glanced quickly round.
The group had dispersed, except two
persons, a man and a woman, who were
preparing to take their places in the train. The
person whom I took for Mr. Darke was a
bulky middle-aged man, dressed in a good
suit of black clothes. He had black hair,
and thick black eyebrows; his whiskers
were black, meeting full and bushy under
his chin; his face was pale, and marked by
the small-pox, and his eyes were black,
bold, and cunning; altogether a fierce
fellow, whom it would be unwise to
enrage. His companion's face I could not
see, it being concealed by a thick veil;
but, judging from her figure, she could
not be much above twenty years old.
She was well, but rather conspicuously,
attired: having over her silk dress a voluminous
scarlet shawl, comfortable-looking enough
certainly, on a cold Christmas morning. But
see! As I live, she has got on the very
pair of lemon-coloured gloves that were
worn by the young dandy who arrived
by the night-mail; the same pair of gloves
without doubt, having the outside seam of
the first finger of the right hand a little
torn. There, too, is the identical little
black portmanteau, carefully carried, this
time, by Mr. Darke himself. What can it
all mean?