As the train rumbled eastward he again pulled out the paper which Marsden had handed him, and read it through carefully a second time. Brief though it was, it certainly presented Major Fenton in a far from flattering light. Apart from its own uncomplimentary phrases, it suggested that the account of himself which he had given to Nancy was probably quite untrue. Whatever his exact reasons for going abroad might have been, it was clear that they had nothing to do with the demands of military service. That he had only returned to England in the spring was also apparently a piece of deliberate fiction. Unless the police were wrong, he had been a conspicuous figure at race meetings ever since the conclusion of the war; conspicuous, too, in a fashion which seemed to clash rather badly with the chivalrous role he had adopted in his relations toward Nancy. Had he really been acquainted with her father at all? It was a question which Colin had already asked himself on several occasions, and in view of what he had just read his doubts on the subject became more pronounced than ever. The details of the story were so improbable, and the professed motive so extremely unlikely, that in the absence of any other evidence except the Major's own statement all his beliefs inclined in the opposite direction. It seemed to him that Nancy ought certainly to be enlightened concerning the somewhat unreliable nature of her "guardian's" claims. The job was not a particularly attractive one, for she had given him no authority to make inquiries, and the character of an unauthorized Paul Pry is about the last that any one would wish to assume. Besides, there was the awkward fact that Fenton had already cautioned Nancy against him, and it might well appear to a third person that in bringing this counter-charge he was merely gratifying his own private resentment. Still, even at the risk of being misunderstood it was clearly his duty to put her on her guard. He would show her the report, and tell her frankly how it had come into his possession, and if the consequences proved to be unfortunate he must put up with them as best he could. It was at the precise moment when he had arrived at this decision that the train ran into Whitechapel station. He got out in company with a number of other passengers bound for the less fashionable quarters of East End London, and, crossing the line by a covered bridge, descended into the narrow and dimly lit vault where passengers to Shadwell await their destiny. As he reached the platform the figure of a man sitting by himself on a solitary bench suddenly attracted his attention, and, stepping promptly forward to the seat, he gave its occupant a sounding slap on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Joe," he said. "There's sure to be a train some time to-day." Mr. Joseph Bates--for it was none other than the ex-pugilist--jumped to his feet with a grin of welcome.