"Against what regulations?" said the undefeated Fitz.
"The Company's."
"Against the Company's regulations! Who the devil are the Company that they should have regulations?"
This was a poser for the porter, who made a rather ineffectual apology for such a piece of assumption on the part of the Company. But the station-master's bell was ringing, and I, peering wildly through the window, in the vain hope that my mentor, my hope, my stand-by might after all appear, could see never a sign of Lieutenant-Colonel John Chalmers Coverdale, C.M.G., late of His Majesty's Carabineers.
CHAPTER X
ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS
But what is that? A commotion away up the platform, under the clock. Yes, it is he, the faithful and the valiant! At least it is not he, but one Baguley, a superannuated police-sergeant, bereft of an eye in the service of the public peace. He staggers along under the oppressive burden of a kit bag of portentous dimensions, and twenty paces behind, sauntering along the platform with the most leisurely nonchalance in the world, blandly indifferent to the fact that the London express is due out, is the impressive and slightly pompous bulk of the fifth conspirator, the great Chief Constable.
There is a tremendous touching of hats along the platform. Even that true Olympian, the guard of the London express, contrives to dissemble his legitimate impatience, while Coverdale and his kit bag come aboard the reserved compartment.
"Cutting it rather fine, weren't you?" said I, with a tremor of relief in my voice.