d him into a compartment of the first train which came along, one
of extreme slowness, and then dismissed him into cold space without a
scrap of remorse. The humble creature, discharging his station duties
with the precision of daily habit, had swung into the overpowering
orbit of Chief Inspector Dawson, been caught up, dumped without
instructions upon an unknown journey in attendance upon an unknown
workman. Then when the train had stopped, he had been spewed out upon
a strange country platform, led through strange mean streets, and
forced with head bared to the autumn chill of evening, to attend the
obsequies of a total stranger. At the end, without a word of
explanation, still less of apology, he had been returned as an empty
rejected package to the platform at Liverpool Street. Yes, I should
dearly love to have met and cross-questioned that policeman, and have
listened to the bizarre solution which he had to offer to it all. But
most probably, in his stolid, faithful way, he never gave the subject
any thought at all. To be tossed about at the whims of superiors was
an experience which he would take as composedly as he would those
exiguous weekly wages which were the derisory compensation.

Dawson went to the small hotel which he had picked out with Froissart
as a convenient rendezvous. There he sat for hours doing nothing, for
he was far too wise a man to push his head into another man's
business, even though that one were a subordinate and a foreigner. He
had failed once; he could not afford, by deputy, to fail a second
time. Besides, he knew nothing of the movements of Froissart and his
quarry. They had not appeared within the visible horizon of
Burnham-on-Crouch, though they had had ample time in which to arrive.
I am afraid that his temper got the better of him, and as the night
drew on, unsolaced by a word from Froissart, and unrelieved by any
literature more engrossing than old railway time-tables and hotel
advertisements, he consigned to the Bottomless Pit the Chief of the
Devonport Dockyard, the disgustingly virtuous and unenterprising
Maynard, and even the harmless soul of his lately buried mother.
Dawson in a royal rage is no pleasant spectacle.

It had gone half-past eleven before Froissart came, a boisterous,
triumphant Froissart, bragging of his skill and his success in the
manner of a born Gascon.

"It was tremendous, _mon ami_," roared Froissart, unchecked by
Dawson's scowls. "I have done the bloom