"Look here! Snapshots aren't allowed without a permit," he remonstrated.
The photographer slipped the kodak back into his pocket and smiled his former plausible smile.
"I am an American," he began, "a journalist. I have been sent by my newspaper to England, to write an article upon golf links. I wish to include those of Porthkeverne, with illustrations."
"Have you a permit?" persisted his fellow-passenger. "You'll get yourself into trouble if you haven't. The authorities are uncommonly strict about it."
"It's a queer dodge to photograph the golf links from a railway carriage," commented someone else.
"Not at all! I take hundreds of photos for my magazine in this way," explained the self-styled journalist.
"Well, you'll just not take any now," returned the other. "If you do, I shall inform the guard."
Lorraine listened excitedly. She was quite loath to leave the compartment at Ranock. She wondered to what destination the man was travelling, and hoped that the other passengers would keep an eye on him. She went that afternoon to see her uncle, Barton Forrester, who was a special constable, and told him about both incidents. He looked thoughtful.
"I'll report the matter to Wakelin," he commented. "One can't be too careful in a place like this. Of course the fellow might have a permit, but it had better be inquired into. Give me as accurate a description of him as you can."
Lorraine shut her eyes, visualized, and gave her impressions of the stranger. Uncle Barton rapidly jotted down a few notes. He communicated the result to the chief constable, who issued an order that the next time anyone answering to that description was sighted his photographic permit was to be demanded and inspected. There is such a thing, however, as shutting the stable door after the steed is stolen; and, in spite of the vigilance of the local police, nothing further was seen or heard of the enterprising photographer. He had evidently betaken himself and his camera to other scenes of adventure.