On his departure the conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys related solely to the agreeable manner and vast experience of their late companion. Cursty’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. His darling Aggy, however, was a little more circumspect in her praise, and did not hesitate to confess—that there was something about t’ gentleman she didn’t half like—she couldn’t exactly tell what; but there was something so peculiar in his manner, that for her part, she was not _quite_ so much taken with him. He was a very pleasant, agreeable man enough, but still—she could not say why—all she knew was—she did not like him. And then, as the discussion on their late companion’s merits rose rather high, she begged her husband to mark her words, for she felt convinced in her mind—indeed, she had a certain kind of a presentiment—a strange kind of a feeling that she couldn’t describe—and it was no use Cursty’s talking—but her impression was—and she hoped Mr. Sandboys would bear it well in mind—that they should hear of that gentleman again some fine day; and that was all she wished to say about the matter. With this slight discussion to enliven the tedium of the journey, the distance between Preston and Manchester passed so quickly, that when the collector at the Manchester station called for the tickets, Mr. Sandboys could not help expressing his astonishment at the rapidity of their travelling. “Now, sir, if you please—quick as you can—show your tickets;—tickets—tickets.” Mr. Sandboys instinctively thrust his hand to the bottom of his trowsers’ pocket, but then, remembering that the red-cotton bag in which he had securely deposited the precious vouchers had been shifted to his fob, he began a vain attempt to fish up his money-bag, from the depths of the narrow little tube of a watch-pocket in which the strange gentleman had so kindly inserted it. “_Now_, sir, if you please!” again shouted the impatient collector. “_Now_, sir!” But the more impatient the man became, the more nervous grew Mr. Sandboys, and though he worked his fore-finger round and round, he could not, for the life of him, lay hold of the desired red cotton receptacle. At length, with the united aid of Mrs. Sandboys and the collector, the fob was emptied of its contents, and then, to Cursty’s great terror, it was discovered that the strange gentleman, and assumed member of the Detective Police Force, had practised upon the unsophisticated native of Buttermere the very trick against which he was pretending to put him on his guard. The purse was to all outward appearances the same—the interior, however, consisted of a congregation of whist counters and Bank of Elegance notes.