I did not dare enter the same compartment, but I got into the next, and now and then, when our train stopped at the different stations, I could hear him distinctly talking to a fellow-workman, in a refined, gentlemanly voice, that would have attracted attention to him anywhere. Once the other man called him Jack, and asked where he hung out, and I noticed this question was cleverly eluded, but I heard him say afterwards that he was in regular work, and liked his present governor, and that the old woman who looked after him was a tidy, decent lady, and kept things comfortable. My thoughts strayed a little after this. The sight of Mr. Hamilton had disturbed me. What would he think when Gladys showed him my telegram? He had promised to finish our conversation this evening. I felt with a strange soreness of longing that I should not see Gladwyn that night. My absence of mind nearly cost me dear, for I had no idea that we had reached Bishop's Road until Eric passed my window, and with a smothered exclamation I opened the door: happily, the passengers were numerous and blocked up the stairs, so I reached the street to find him only a few yards before me. My patience was being severely exercised after this, for Eric did not go straight to his lodgings. He went into a butcher's first, and after a few minutes' delay--for there were customers in the shop--came out with a newspaper parcel in his hand. Then he went into a grocer's, and through the window I could see him putting little packets of tea and sugar in his pocket. His next business was to the baker's, and here a three-cornered crusty loaf was the result. The poor young fellow was evidently providing his evening meal, and the sight of these homely delicacies reminded me that I was tired and hungry and that a cup of tea would be refreshing. Eric carried his steak and three-cornered loaf jauntily, and every now and then broke into a sweet low whistle that reminded me of his nickname among his mates of 'Jack the Whistler.' We were threading the labyrinth of streets that lie behind Bishop's Road Station; I was beginning to feel weary and discouraged, when Eric stopped suddenly before a neat-looking house of two stories, with very bright geraniums in the parlour window, and taking out his latch-key let himself in, and closed the door with a bang. I stalked carelessly to the end of the street, and read the name. 'No. 25 Madison Street,' I said to myself, and then I went up to the door and knocked boldly. My time had come now, I thought, trying to pull myself together, for I felt decidedly nervous. A stout, oldish woman with rather a pleasant face opened the door; her arms were bare, and she dried her hands on her apron as she asked me my business. 'Your lodger Jack Poynter has just come in,' I said quietly. 'I have a message for him. Can I see him, please?'