Stanley thanked him for his information, and, after spending a minute or two with the station-master, negotiating for a match, he lighted a cigarette and emerged on the little platform. To his surprise he found it tenanted by a solitary figure, and that none other than Mr. Arthur Riddle. If he had any luggage it must have been in the luggage-room, for he was without sign of impedimenta, excepting a stout stick. He wore a long, black travelling cloak, and his white, drawn face and the dark circles under his eyes gave evidence of either a sleepless night or great mental anxiety, perhaps of both. He held in his mouth an unlighted cigar, which he was nervously chewing to pieces. Both men became aware of each other's presence at the same instant; both unconsciously hesitated to advance, and then both came forward. Stanley was the first to speak. "I wasn't aware that you were leaving, Mr. Riddle." The man looked at him, with the expression of a hunted animal driven to bay; a fear of something worse than death in his eyes. "How could you think I should do otherwise, after your discoveries of last night?" "I think you're making a mistake. But I shan't try to prevent you. I've no fear of losing you even in London. I could lay hands on you where I wished." "My journey is much farther afield than London." "There are extradition laws." "Not where I'm going," he said. A shrill whistle smote the air, and the porter came hurrying out on the platform, crying:-- "The express, gentlemen, the express! Stand back, please!" Stanley noticed that unconsciously they had drawn rather near the edge. "Look out!" he said to Mr. Riddle. "The express is coming!" "In a moment," replied that gentleman. "I've just dropped my cigar," and indeed it was lying at his feet. "Hurry up, then, the train is on us! You've no time to lose!" "I've time enough," he replied, bending deliberately forward. Some grim note in his voice awoke the Secretary to his true intentions. There was only a second's leeway, the iron monster was even then bursting out of the railway arch at the further end of the platform, with the roar and rush of tremendous speed. Mr. Riddle was bending far forward, overreaching his cigar, making no attempt to get it--was---- Stanley flung his arms about his adversary's waist, and made a superhuman effort to drag him back. "You meddling fool, let me alone!" shouted the other. "No!" panted the Secretary. "Then come too!" he cried, and rising up, he threw his arms about him, and gathered himself to spring on to the rails in front of the train. All seemed over, the cry of the porter rang in Stanley's ears, the rattle of the train deafened him, the hot breath of the engine seemed blowing in his face. Then somehow his foot caught his opponent's, and the next instant they were falling--to death or life--he could not tell. A second later they lay prone on the platform. The express had passed them, and vanished in a cloud of dust.