"MR. SAMPSON WILMOT, PASSENGER TO SOUTHAMPTON."
James Wentworth gave a long whistle.
"I thought as much," he muttered; "I thought I couldn't be mistaken!"
He went into the ticket-office, where the clerk was standing amongst the crowd, waiting to take his ticket.
James Wentworth went up close to him, and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
Sampson Wilmot turned and looked him full in the face. He looked, but there was no ray of recognition in that look.
"Do you want me, sir?" he asked, with rather a suspicious glance at the reprobate's shabby dress.
"Yes, Mr. Wilmot, I want to speak to you. You can come into the waiting-room with me, after you've taken your ticket."
The clerk stared aghast. The tone of this shabby-looking stranger was almost one of command.
"I don't know you, my good sir," stammered Sampson; "I never set eyes upon you before; and unless you are a messenger sent after me from the office, you must be under a mistake. You are a stranger to me!"