"Elster."
A quick glance from the station-master's eyes met the answer. Elster was the name of the family at Hartledon. He wondered whether this could be one of them, or whether the name was merely a coincidence.
"There was no portmanteau left, was there, Jones?" asked the station-master.
"There couldn't have been," returned the porter, touching his cap to the stranger. "I wasn't on last night; Jim was; but it would have been put in the office for sure; and there's not a ghost of a thing in it this morning."
"It must have been taken on to Garchester," remarked the traveller; and, turning to the guard, he gave him directions to look after it, and despatch it back again by the first train, slipping at the same time a gratuity into his hand.
The guard touched his hat humbly; he now knew who the gentleman was. And he went into inward repentance for slamming the carriage-door, as he got into his box, and the engine and train puffed on.
"You'll send it up as soon as it comes," said the traveller to the station-master.
"Where to, sir?"
The stranger raised his eyes in slight surprise, and pointed to the house in the distance. He had assumed that he was known.
"To Hartledon."