I went to my father's house to pick up my luggage, and found a letter there, which unexpectedly detained me in London.

I went back to the bank with the Diamond, and thought I saw the shabby man again.

Taking the Diamond once more out of the bank this morning, I saw the man for the third time, gave him the slip, and started (before he recovered the trace of me) by the morning instead of the afternoon train.

Here I am, with the Diamond safe and sound--and what is the first news that meets me?
I find that three strolling Indians have been at the house, and that my arrival from London, and something which I am expected to have about me, are two special objects of investigation to them when they believe themselves to be alone.

I don't waste time and words on their pouring the ink into the boy's hand, and telling him to look in it for a man at a distance, and for something in that man's pocket.