"There's something under the cards here." Arrived at the great terminus, the stockbroker made his way to the down platform.

There was a lull in the day's traffic, and only a few listless wretches lounging disconsolately here and there, with eyes ever and anon lifted to the clock.

Amongst these there was no Valentine Hawkehurst.
Mr.Sheldon peered into all the waiting-rooms, and surveyed the refreshment-counter; but there was still no sign of the man he sought.
He went back to the ticket-office; but here again all was desolate, the shutters of the pigeon-holes hermetically closed, and no vestige of Valentine Hawkehurst.
The stockbroker was disappointed, but not defeated.

He returned to the platform, looked about him for a few moments, and then addressed himself to a porter of intelligent aspect.
"What trains have left here within the last half-hour ?" he asked.
"Only one, sir; the 2.15 down, for Manchester." "You didn't happen to notice a dark-eyed, dark-haired young man among the passengers--second class ?" asked Mr.Sheldon.
"No, sir.

There are always a good many passengers by that train; I haven't time to notice their faces." The stockbroker asked no further questions.