The young man showed signs of some satisfaction. “I am very much obliged to you, sir,” he declared. “I promise you I won’t be in the way.”
The station-master, who had been looking through a little pile of telegrams brought to him by a clerk from his office, now turned towards them. His expression was a little grave.
“Your special will be backing down directly, sir,” he announced, “but I am sorry to say that we hear very bad accounts of the line. They say that this is only the fag-end of the storm that we are getting here, and that it’s been raging for nearly twenty-four hours on the east coast. I doubt whether the Harwich boat will be able to put off.”
“We must take our chance about that,” Dunster remarked. “If the mail boat doesn’t run, I presume there will be something else we can charter.”
The station-master looked the curiosity which he did not actually express in words.
“Money will buy most things, nowadays, sir,” he observed, “but if it isn’t fit for our mail boat, it certainly isn’t fit for anything else that can come into Harwich Harbour. However, you’ll hear what they say when you get there.”
Mr. Dunster nodded and relapsed into a taciturnity which was obviously one of his peculiarities. The young man strolled down the platform, and catching up with the inspector, touched him on the shoulder.
“Do you know who the fellow is?” he asked curiously. “It’s awfully decent of him to let me go with him, but he didn’t seem very keen about it.”
The inspector shook his head.
“No idea, sir,” he replied. “He drove up just two minutes after the train had gone, came straight into the office and ordered a special. Paid for it, too, in Bank of England notes before he went out. I fancy he’s an American, and he gave his name as John P. Dunster.”