For a wonder I was in time for the train, which, I was told, was due to start in an hour's time.
I spent that hour first of all in washing, then in breakfasting, finally in telegraphing to my manager-- "Fancy tracked him here rough crossing--will wire again shortly." Then having satisfied myself that none of the steamer passengers could possibly have caught an earlier train, and determined not to lose the train this time, I took a ticket for Londonderry, and ensconced myself a good quarter of an hour before the appointed hour in a corner of a carriage commanding a good view of the booking-office door.
As the minutes sped by, and no sign of my man, I began to grow nervous.
After all he might be staying in Belfast, or, having got wind of my pursuit, might be escaping in some other direction.

It was not a comfortable reflection, not did it add to my comfort that among the passengers who crowded into my carriage, and helped to keep out my view of the booking-office door, was the gloomy, detective-looking individual whose demeanour had so disconcerted me during the first stage of this disastrous journey.
He eyed me as suspiciously as ever from behind his everlasting newspaper, and under his scrutiny I hardly dared persevere in my own look-out.

I made a pretext of buying a newspaper in order to keep near the door.

To my dismay the whistle suddenly sounded as I was counting my change, and the train began to move off.

At the same moment a figure, carrying in one hand a portmanteau and in the other a hat-box, rushed frantically into the station, and made a blind clash at the very door where I stood.