The Secret Service man clambered down the footboard on to the permanent way, his progress watched with unabated interest by scores of passengers. Then, taking to his heels, he ran with the ease of a trained athlete towards the station. He was too late. Already the train--a slow local--had taken up its quota of passengers and was out of sight. Entwistle promptly tackled the ticket collector. "A tallish chap in a grey overcoat and a bowler, sir?" inquired the man. "Yes; I remember him. He's got a ticket for Hawick. ...No, sir, third, single." "Is there a motor available?" asked Entwistle, loth to go to the extremity of telegraphing or telephoning to the Hawick police. One was--a powerful six-cylinder. The driver, rising to the exhortation to "drive like blue blazes," pressed heavily upon the accelerator, and the car leapt along the road. There was every chance of reaching Hawick before the train, punctures and other road mishaps excepted. The route through Selkirk was practically a direct one, while the iron road made a considerable detour through Melrose. Consequently, nothing happening to delay the car, Entwistle found himself, cool but elated, waiting outside the entrance to Hawick Station a good six minutes before the advertised time of the train's arrival. Keenly alive to the necessity for prompt action, the Secret Service man took up a position immediately behind the open door. The train drew up. There seemed no hurry on the part of the arriving passengers to leave the platform. A boy wearing a tam-o'-shanter and a plaid was the first to appear, then an old woman bearing a large wicker basket. A couple of huge, red-faced farmers next jostled through the doorway, discussing in loud tones the latest ruling market prices of oats and oil-cake. After them a pale, thin-featured woman with a baby, and last of all a nervous young man who walked with hesitating steps as he fumbled for a mislaid ticket. "Confound it!" muttered Entwistle savagely. Leaving his place of concealment, he made for the platform. Luggage was still being put out of the van. There might be time to look into all the carriages. He would have to take the risk of "Captain Fennelburt" recognising him as the cleric who travelled with him from Nedderburn to Edinburgh. But Entwistle was again disappointed. The train, a non-corridor one, carried no passengers at all resembling the wanted man. "Captain Fennelburt" had adroitly covered his tracks. The baffled Secret Service man hied him to the telephone--the Railway Company's private wire--and rang up Galashiels. A brief but emphatic conversation both with the ticket collector and the booking clerk elicited the information that the bowler-hatted man might have alighted at one of the four intermediate stations. "You'll be for trying St. Boswell's Junction, mon?" came a suggestion on the telephone.