said, "but there was a
gentleman at Plymouth Station who seemed to be something like what I can
recall of Mr. Roscorla: you didn't see him, I suppose?"

"At Plymouth Station, grandmother?" the young man said, becoming rather
uneasy.

"Yes. He got into the train just as we came up. A neatly-dressed man,
gray hair and a healthy-looking face. I must have seen him somewhere
about here before."

"Roscorla is in Jamaica," said Trelyon positively.

Just at this moment the train slowed into Launceston Station, and the
people began to get out on the platform.

"That is the man I mean," said the old lady.

Trelyon turned and stared. There, sure enough, was Mr. Roscorla, looking
not one whit different from the precise, elderly, fresh-colored
gentleman who had left Cornwall some seven months before.

"Good Lord, Harry!" said the old lady nervously, looking at her
grandson's face, "don't have a fight here."

The next second Mr. Roscorla wheeled round, anxious about some luggage,
and now it was his turn to stare in astonishment and anger--anger,
because he had been told that Harry Trelyon never came near Cornwall,
and his first sudden suspicion was that he had been deceived. All this
had happened in a minute. Trelyon was the first to regain his
self-command. He walked deliberately forward, held out his hand, and
said, "Hillo, Roscorla! back in England again? I didn't know you were
coming."

"No," said Mr. Roscorla, with his face grown just a trifle grayer--"no,
I suppose not."

In point of fact, he had not informed any one of his coming. He had
prepared a little surprise. The chief motive of his return was to get
Wenna to cancel for ever that unlucky letter of release he had sent her,
which he had done more or less successfully in subsequent
correspondence; but he had also hoped to introduce a little romanticism
into his meeting with her. He would enter Eglosilyan on foot. He would
wander down to the rocks at the mouth of the harbor on the chance of
finding Wenna there. Might he not hear her humming to herself, as she
sat and sewed, some snatch of "Your Polly has never been false, she
declares"? or was that the very last ballad in the world she would now
think of singing? Then the delight of regarding again the placid, bright
face and earnest eyes, of securing once more a perfect understanding
between them, and their glad return to the inn!

All this had been spoiled by the appearance of this young man: he loved
him n