Whirling suddenly round to pursue yet another porter, Claire became aware of a figure in a long tweed coat standing on the space beside the taxi-stand, intently watching her movements. She recognised him in a moment as none other than "Erskine" himself, who, having seen his mother into her car, was presumably bound for another destination. But why was he standing there? Why had he been so long in moving away? Claire hastily averted her eyes, but as she cross-questioned porter number four, she was aware that the tall figure was drawing nearer, and presently he was standing by her side, taking off his hat, and saying in the most courteous and deferential of tones-- "Excuse me--I'm afraid something is wrong! Can I be of any assistance?" Claire's glance was frigid in its coldness; but it was difficult to remain frigid in face of the man's obvious sincerity and kindliness. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Please don't trouble. I can manage quite well. It's only a trunk..." "Is it lost? I say--what a fag! Do let me help. I know this station by heart! If it is to be found, I am sure I can get it for you." This time there was a distinct air of appeal in his deep voice. Claire divined that the nice man was anxious to atone for his mother's cavalier behaviour, and her heart softened towards him. After all, why should she punish herself by refusing? Five minutes more or less on the station platform could make no difference one way or another, for at the end they would wish each other a polite adieu, and part never to meet again. And she _did_ want that box! She smiled, and sighed, and looked delightfully pretty and appealing, as she said frankly-- "Thank you, I _should_ be grateful for suggestions. It's the most extraordinary and provoking thing--" They walked slowly down the platform while she explained the situation, and reiterated the fact that she had seen the box ten minutes before. Erskine Fanshawe did not dispute the statement as each porter had done before him; he contented himself with asking if there was any distinctive feature in the appearance of the box itself. Claire shook her head. "The ordinary brown leather, with strappings and C.G. on one side. Just like a thousand other boxes, but it had a label, beside the initials. I don't see how anyone can have taken it by mistake." She set her teeth, and her head took a defiant tilt. "There's one comfort; if it _is_ stolen, whoever has taken it will not get much for her pains! There's nothing in it but skirts. Skirts won't be much good without the bodices to match!" The man looked down at her, his expression comically compounded of sympathy and humour. At that moment, despite the irregularity of his features, he looked wonderfully like his handsome mother. "Er--just so! Unfortunately, however, from the opposite point of view, you find yourself in the same position! Bodices, I presume, without skirts--" Claire groaned, and held up a protesting hand.