The London express rolled with stately deliberation into Brayport station. Mr. Bodery folded up his newspapers, reached down his bag from the netting, and prepared to alight. The editor of the _Beacon_ had enjoyed a very pleasant journey, despite broiling sun and searching dust. He knew the possibilities of a first-class smoking-carriage--how to regulate the leeward window and chock off the other with a wooden match borrowed from the guard. He stepped from the carriage with the laboured sprightliness of a man past the forties, and a moment later Sidney Carew was at his side. “Mr. Bodery?” “The same. You are no doubt Mr. Carew?” “Yes. Thanks for coming. Hope it didn't inconvenience you?” “Not at all,” replied the editor, breaking his return ticket. “D----n!” said Sidney suddenly. He was beginning to rise to the occasion. He was one of those men who are usually too slack to burthen their souls with a refreshing expletive. “What is the matter?” inquired Mr. Bodery gravely. “There is a man,” explained Sidney hurriedly, “getting out of the train who is coming to stay with us. I had forgotten his existence. _Don't_ look round!” Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look round. Nine out of ten country-bred people would have indulged in a stare. “Is this all your luggage?” continued Sidney abruptly. He certainly was rising. “Yes.” “Then come along. We'll bolt for it. He'll have to get a fly, and that means ten minutes' start if the porter is not officious and mulls things.” They hurried out of the station and clambered into the dog-cart. Sidney gathered up the reins. “Hang it,” he exclaimed. “What bad luck! There is a fly waiting. It is never there when you want it.” Mr. Bodery looked between the shafts. “You need not be afraid of that fly,” he said. “No--come up, you brute!” Mr. Bodery turned carelessly to put his bag in the back of the cart. “Let him have it,” he exclaimed in a low voice. “Your friend sees you, but he does not know that you have seen him. He is pointing you out to the station-master.” As he spoke the cart swung round the gate-post of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, and Sidney's right hand felt for the whip-socket. “There,” he said, “we are safe. I think I can manage that fly.” Mr. Bodery settled himself and drew the dust-cloth over his chubby knees. “Now,” he said, “tell me all about Vellacott.” Sidney did so.