Near the foot of the gangplank in the vast dock building was a corner partition where the passengers coming ashore made a turn to the right. Back in this corner, which commanded a view of the people filing past the two ticket takers and down the gangplank, stood the Purser with the two men who had been looking over the passenger list in his office. It was toward the end of the stream of disembarking passengers that Mr. Pentecost and the two Harkers, father and son, came into view at the top of the gangway, with one of the stewards carrying their luggage. As they came ashore and were approaching the right-hand turn, the Purser stepped out and shook hands with them, trusting they’d had a restful night after their strenuous day in Boston, and wishing them good luck with their new invention. All was in the most jovial manner, and the three passed on toward the street. But before they’d got there one of the stewards came running after them and said that if they had time the Purser would like to see them for just a minute. “Why, certainly,” Pentecost said. “Tell him we’ll be right along!” Harker was alarmed and started to say something under his breath, but Pentecost growled in a half whisper, without looking at him, “Can’t you see everything they do stamps it!” Alfred went on toward the street to get a taxi, and the two partners turned back. The Purser was still on the dock near the gangplank, but the two men who’d been with him were gone—at least, not in sight. But don’t imagine that fooled Pentecost any. “Didn’t mean to trouble you,” Mr. Lawson called out as the two came near. “No trouble,” said Pentecost. “Not at all,” added Harker. “What’s going?” “Why, I’ve just heard something that might concern you gentlemen in a business way. Man came aboard a minute ago and was telling about a hell of a murder last night over in Boston.” “Murder, eh?” said Harker, with the interest such news might naturally inspire—but no more. “What makes you think we’d be concerned?” Pentecost inquired. “Hardly a chance you are—only he said it was out in West Roxbury, and I remembered you told us _your_ man——” “What was the name—did he say?” Pentecost asked quickly and with awakening anxiety—just the right amount you know—not the merest trifle overdone. “Why no, I don’t think he did.” Pentecost glanced at Harker and Harker at him. “A lot of things might happen in West Roxbury,” he said, turning back to the Purser. “Sure they might,” assented that official; “but he said it was an inventor chap living out there alone.” “Inventor!” exclaimed Pentecost. “Living out——By George! And all that money we——” He broke off, and suddenly turning to go was heard to say, “I’ve got to make a run for a train!”