She nodded again.
"And then the foreman porter? And then a ticket collector? And then the inspector? And then a casual post-man? And then did you come across your original porter and try him again?"
She admitted the list without a blush.
"And now tell me all about your dear lost one—a weak, helpless man, no doubt?"
"It was my husband," she explained.
"A medium-sized man, in a macintosh and a straw hat, of course?"
She acquiesced.
"But none the less," continued the official, "a man of sterling worth? You do not think he can be in some lost property office en route, waiting to be called for?"
The suggestion was an attractive one, but was rejected. "Then," he said, "let us go and discuss this intimate tragedy in some less public spot."
He took her to his office and begged her to be seated. "Repose all confidence in me, Madam," he said, "for I am not without experience in husbands. Good fellows on the whole, with their gladstone bags and their pince-nez and their unmistakable respectability. But somehow they have not acquired the knack of arriving when they are expected. Yours is the seventh who has failed us by this train. True, the other six were coming from Liverpool, whereas the 6.30 has come from London, but that is no excuse for them or us."