"Oh, hang Bonaparte! Go on," I said snappishly, for I was cold, hungry, and tired—conditions that do not tend to improve one's temper.
"He was wearing a long grey cloak and had a travelling-bag with him, marked with the letters "G.W." I noticed the bag particularly, because it came open as he was stepping from the carriage. My! didn't he shut it sharp! quick as lightning, as if he didn't want any one to see what was inside. I offered to carry it for him, and he told me——"
"What?"
"To go to the devil!"
"You didn't go, I see," said I, attempting to be facetious. "Well, go on. What about the man's face?"
"Face? He looked rather white and excited; perhaps because he was in a passion with the carriage-door; it didn't open easily. He had a dark scar on his temple, and——"
"Left or right temple?"
"Left."
George had a dark scar on his left temple, the relic of a fall from a cliff at Upsala. His initials too were "G.W." Good! The figure on the pier was not an illusion, then. The porter's words convinced me that the man he had seen was my brother.
"How long is it since he was here?" I inquired.