Beyond stood a sturdily-built man with a long black coat and soft hat—evidently a clergyman. He was trying to decipher a poster in the feeble glimmer of the station lamps.
The changing of the signal from red to green warned the spy that it was time to enter the station. Outside the entrance stood an old and somewhat decrepit porter who, after inquiry as to whether the new arrival had any luggage and receiving a negative reply, hobbled off to ring the bell. At the doorway stood a girl ticket-collector.
"Warrant, miss!" exclaimed von Preussen, holding out a buff paper.
The girl examined it perfunctorily.
"Carlisle—change at Edinburgh!" she announced.
The spy thanked the girl for the gratuitous and unnecessary information. To change at Edinburgh was his intention. By so doing he could withhold and destroy the faked railway warrant, which, had it been retained by the ticket collector, would eventually be presented to the Air Ministry for payment. Already von Preussen had travelled thousands of miles over British railways without payment, and never once had he surrendered the buff slip that would otherwise have been a clue to his movements.
With much hissing of steam the night mail train drew up at the platform. The handful of travellers hurried along, peering into the dimly-lit compartments in the hope of finding vacant seats. Von Preussen happened to secure one in the company of five naval officers who were already "bored stiff" with their tedious journey from a far northern base. The spy soon discovered that there was precious little information to be picked up from them.
At Perth the spy changed compartments. He now found himself in the company of four rather lively subalterns and the clergyman he had noticed on Nedderburn Junction platform. The latter, deep in the pages of the Church Times, took no notice of the new arrival.
"Tickets, please!"
A gigantic inspector examined the tickets and vouchers of the occupants of the compartment.