Mr. Chelsfield, walking along the platform with the Inspector for the sake of company and the encouragement of warmth, had to admit that he felt equally anxious, and offered the present of a cigar which he described as harmless; the official accepted it graciously, and promised to make it the subject of an experiment on the following Sunday afternoon. In return he gave the latest news from Chislehurst, and guaranteed to eat his silk hat if the Emperor recovered. He felt sorry for Napoleon, and expressed the view that it was a pity there was only one son in the family. Nice enough young fellow, it was true; he had shaken hands with the Inspector once, but if anything happened to the Prince Imperial, where would they be? The Inspector’s estimate of the right number in a family coincided with the number in his own. “This,” said Mr. Chelsfield, with a nod in the direction of the down line—“this is the only one we’ve got. Only one we ever had.” “Take care not to spoil him. That’s always the risk when there’s only one. Now my six— Here’s the train signalled. Get to the other end of the platform, and then you can’t miss him.” The platform was long under its wooden roof, and Mr. Chelsfield could not move with the celerity he had shown in the early ’sixties; some of his colleagues at the warehouse said it was rheumatism, but he declared it to be only a slight stiffness of the joints. Passengers were going through the barrier, and, flushed by anxiety, he looked about; presently made a dash through the crowd, seized a lad who wore a mortar-board, and pinched his ear affectionately. On the lad turning and demanding an explanation, Mr. Chelsfield apologised for his error, and hurried off to continue his search. “Three hours and a half,” said the friendly Inspector later. “That’s what it is before the next. It isn’t worth while waiting if you only live up in Holborn. Hop into a ’bus outside the station.” “I must,” Mr. Chelsfield admitted concernedly. “I’m bound to go back and tell his mother. She’ll be out of her mind else.” “Just my argument,” claimed the Inspector. “Now, if you’d got six, like I have—” Mr. Chelsfield stepped out of the omnibus at Chancery Lane, and, paying the conductor, went along to Bedford Row with some wisps of the straw belonging to the conveyance attached to his boots. He felt himself to be on the edge of a painful scene, and wondered where he should find the sal volatile if it happened to be wanted. The front door of the offices, with its elaborate knocker, was open, and he went slowly downstairs to the living-rooms. “Well?” said his wife. He shook his head. “Speak up!” she commanded; “I can’t hear when you turn your face to the wall and mumble like that.” He gave the explanation and waited for signs of collapse. “You’re a pretty one to send to a railway-station, and no mistake!” she remarked, taking off the tea-cosy. “Another time I must go myself.”