“No,” he said: “really? That is odd, indeed.”
He shook hands with me, and left the room. Standing at the window a moment after, I saw him going Citywards along the Strand, looking, with his short thick legs and tailed morning coat, for all the world like a fat jaunty turtle on its way to Birch’s.
Now I fancied I had seen the last of the man; but I was curiously mistaken. When I arrived at Waterloo Station the next day, there, rather to my stupefaction, he stood as if awaiting me, and at the barrier—my barrier—leading to the platform for my train, the two o’clock Bournemouth express. We passed through almost together.
“Hullo!” I said. “Going south?”
He nodded genially. “I thought, with your permission, we might be travelling companions.”
“With pleasure, of course. But I go no further than the first stop—Winton.”
“Nor I.”
“O, indeed? A delectable old city. You are putting up there?”
“No, O no! My destination, like yours, is Wildshott.”
“Wildshott! You know the Kennetts then?”