“Yes, sir, he pulled the door back and inquired what kind of a morning it was.”
“Where did he alight?”
“At Waverley, of course. I handed him out his bags, and one of the porters of the North British Hotel took them.”
“You’re quite certain of that?”
“As certain as we’re going north to-night, sir,” replied the man.
Then I drew forth the Professor’s photograph from my pocket and showed it to him.
“That’s the same gentleman, and a very nice gentleman he was, too, sir,” he declared, the instant his eyes fell upon it. “But for what reason do you ask this? You’re the second person who has made inquiries.”
“Only—well, only because the Professor is a little eccentric,” I replied diplomatically, “and we are rather anxious to know of his doings up in Scotland. Nearly all great men of genius,” I added, “are slightly eccentric, you know.”
“Well, he went to the North British,” replied the conductor. “They’ll be certain to recollect him there.”
“Do you know the porter who took his bag?”