“You never know your luck!” responded Blick. He said little to the landlord as they drove into Selcaster, but when they came to the ancient Market Cross in the middle of the old city, he laid a hand on his arm. “Grimsdale,” he said, “pull up, and set me down here. I’m going to see the Chief Constable—I’ll walk along the street. And listen—I want you to stop in Selcaster a bit. Be down at the station at ten o’clock sharp. I’ll see you there.” He got out of the trap and went off in the direction of the Chief Constable’s office, and Grimsdale turned into the big courtyard of the Mitre, to wait until the appointed time. At five minutes to ten he went down to the station, and handing over his horse and trap to the care of the boy, walked upon the up platform. The London express was nearly due, and, as usual, there were many passengers awaiting its arrival: the platform was thronged. But Grimsdale was quick to observe that Blick was there, and that near him, mingling with the crowd, were two or three plainclothes policemen of the local force; clearly Blick was expecting somebody. And Grimsdale, a bit of straw protruding from his lips, watched, keen-eyed and observant. Ten o’clock chimed from the many towers in the city, and nothing had happened. In five minutes more the big express would come thundering in; in eight it would have glided away again on its sixty-mile run to London. At one minute past ten Mr. Blick, who was keeping a sharp watch on the booking-office, left the platform and went outside the station. As he emerged on the open space in front, William Pegge, driving Mrs. Tretheroe’s smart dog-cart, came racing up—alone. Pegge singled Blick out from the folk who hung about the station doors and pulled up right before him. The detective was at the side of the dog-cart in an instant. His eyes went to the vacant seat at the groom’s side. “Where is he?” he asked in a sharp whisper. Pegge bent down. “Gone!” he answered. “Hooked it during the night! Nobody in his room this morning; clean disappeared! Mrs. Tretheroe sent me in to tell the police—she says something’s happened to him.” “Happened to him? What does she mean?” growled Blick. Pegge bent still lower. As he spoke they heard the express coming—it entered the station behind them with a roar and a rattle that died away into the hiss of escaping steam as the engine pulled up and came to its brief rest. “I heard Mrs. Tretheroe say to the housekeeper that the Baron often went out walking very late at night,” he answered. “She said he’s a bad sleeper, and goes out walking to make himself sleep. I made out that she thought he’d gone out that way during the night, and she believes he’s had an accident, or something of that sort. She’s sending folk round for him, and I’m to tell the police here.”