I would soon put this theory to the test. If George had come by train from London, the servants at the station would surely retain some remembrance of him. If others had seen the figure in the grey cloak, it would be a proof that my sense of sight had not deceived me. I entered the station and sought knowledge from the first porter I met, a tired-looking youth, with a sprig of holly stuck in his buttonhole, who gaped vacantly at my questions till the glitter of a silver coin imparted a certain degree of briskness to his faculties. "A military-looking gent, sir? Yes, there was one on the platform a few minutes ago." "Describe him," said I bluntly, as my fellow passengers from the boat began to crowd into the station. "What was he like?" I was desirous of drawing a description of the "military-looking gent" from the porter's unassisted memory rather than of suggesting personal details, to which, in his half-sleepy state and in his desire to get rid of me, he would doubtless subscribe assent. "Well, sir, he wasn't very tall--at least, not for a soldier; but then Bonaparte wasn't----" "Oh, hang Bonaparte! Go on," I said snappishly, for I was cold, hungry, and tired--conditions that do not tend to improve one's temper. "He was wearing a long grey cloak and had a travelling-bag with him, marked with the letters "G.W." I noticed the bag particularly, because it came open as he was stepping from the carriage. My! didn't he shut it sharp! quick as lightning, as if he didn't want any one to see what was inside. I offered to carry it for him, and he told me----" "What?" "To go to the devil!" "You didn't go, I see," said I, attempting to be facetious. "Well, go on. What about the man's face?" "Face? He looked rather white and excited; perhaps because he was in a passion with the carriage-door; it didn't open easily. He had a dark scar on his temple, and----" "Left or right temple?" "Left." George had a dark scar on his left temple, the relic of a fall from a cliff at Upsala. His initials too were "G.W." Good! The figure on the pier was not an illusion, then. The porter's words convinced me that the man he had seen was my brother. "How long is it since he was here?" I inquired. "How long?" repeated the official, jerking his head backwards to get a glimpse of the Station clock. "Only ten minutes since. He came down by the express from Charing Cross. It was a few minutes late owing to the snow." "Do you know if he had a return ticket?" "That I can't say." "What's the next train to London?" "One just on the move now, sir. The next in two hours' time. Better travel by this one. The next is sure to be a slow one, this snowstorm is so heavy. Going by this one, sir?" he continued, swinging open a carriage-door as he saw my hesitation. "Only a minute to spare." "I--I don't know yet. Hold my portmanteau for a moment."