"Was he going to London, or the other way, sir?"
"Can't tell you. Try and recollect."
"Monday?--Monday?" cried Hall, endeavouring to recal what he could. "I ought to remember that night, sir, the one of the calamity in High Street; but the fact is, one day is so much like another here, it's hard to single out any in particular."
"Were you on duty last Sunday week, in the afternoon?"
"Yes, sir; it was my Sunday on."
"The man I speak of arrived by train that afternoon, then. You must have seen him."
"So I did," said the porter, suddenly. "Just the man you describe, sir; and I remember that it struck me I had seen his face somewhere before. It might have been only fancy; I had not much of a look at him; he got mixed with the other passengers, and went away quickly. I recollect the blue bag."
"Just so; all right. Now then, Hall: did you see him leave last Monday evening?"
"I never saw him, to my recollection, since the time of his arrival. Stop a bit. A blue bag? Why, it was a blue bag that--And that was Monday evening. Wait an instant, sir. I'll fetch Bill."
Leaving the detective to make the most of these detached sentences, Hall hurried off before he could be stopped. Mr. Butterby turned his face to the wall, and read the placards there.