“You don’t know his name, then?”
“No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and his only luggage is two brown paper parcels, without any ticket, and he has them inside: indeed, he never lets them from him, even for a second.”
Here the guard’s horn sounded.
As I passed from the inn-door to the coach, I congratulated myself that I was about to be housed from the terrific storm of wind and rain that raged without.
“Here’s the step, sir,” said the guard; “get in, sir, two minutes late already.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said I, as I half fell over the legs of my unseen companion. “May I request leave to pass you?” While he made way for me for this purpose, I perceived that he stooped down and said something to the guard, who, from his answer, had evidently been questioned as to who I was.
“And how did he get here if he took his place in Dublin?” asked the unknown.
“Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise-and-four,” said the guard, as he banged the door behind him, and closed the interview.
“A severe night, sir,” said I.
“Mighty severe,” briefly and half-crustily replied the unknown, in a strong Cork accent.