Presently the man he waited for came out and walked up the platform. He stopped at the book stall and bought a London paper and some magazines. A porter came up, and Bartley Bradstone beckoned to him. “There is a branch line from here to Paddington, the Great Western station, isn’t there?” “Yes; but it’s rather a roundabout way, sir,” answered the porter. “I know,” said Bartley Bradstone, as if he had expected to meet the remark. “But I’m in no particular hurry to reach London. I want to sleep.” “All right, sir,” said the porter. “Train is due in ten minutes.” Bartley Bradstone gave him some coppers, then went and took a ticket. The station was comparatively empty by this time, and Seth was too cunning to emerge from his hiding-place, in which he waited, still studying his newspaper, until the train came up. Then he watched Bartley Bradstone enter a carriage, and, carefully screening himself behind the passers-by, Seth stole gently into a third-class compartment, and, covering his face with his handkerchief, began to snore. The ticket collector came and shook him; but Seth seemed only capable of muttering “London,” and eventually the collector gave it up, remarking: “Well, you’ll have to pay at the other end, my friend.” The murky haze of an early autumn morning hung over London, as the train steamed into the terminus. Bartley Bradstone woke--he had fallen into the deep sleep of exhaustion--and got out. During the journey he had come to a decision as to his movements. He had remembered reading somewhere, in connection with the case of a criminal who had succeeded in evading the most rigorous police search, that there was no place in which a man could conceal himself as in a great city. Why should he go to the Continent, where he could be so easily traced, if anybody wished to track him? Why should he not hide himself in London, where he could inform himself, through the newspapers, of every detail of the trial at Wainford? Then, if all went well--that is, if Faradeane were found guilty and--and----Even mentally he could not conclude the sentence. But if “all went well,” then he could go back and claim Olivia; then he could leave England with her--with her!--forever! In some of the quiet streets leading off the Strand there are several private hotels, as quiet as the streets in which they stand. The patrons of these hotels are colonial and provincial folk, who come and go, appearing on the scene once only, perhaps, and then disappearing, unquestioned and unnoticed--caught up, as it were, on the wheel of the great city, and lost like a drop in the ocean. He called a cab and told the man to drive to Barlow’s Hotel, Denmark street. A minute or so of delay occurred in the hoisting of his portmanteau on to the roof, and in that space of time Seth, with the unobtrusive movements of a gypsy, had got into another cab. “Just follow my master, will you?” he said. The two cabs sped on their way; but suddenly the first came to a stop.