Vaughan prepared to visit Bellair on the second day after the
arrival of Madeline. But almost at the moment of starting there came a
summons from one of his patients, who was taken suddenly worse.
Thinking to take a later train he hastened to the sick man; but the
hour for the last train arrived and passed, and still he stood at the
bedside, battling with death. So it transpired that nearly three days
had elapsed since the flitting of Celine Leroque, when Dr. Vaughan
entered the train that should deposit him at dusk in the village of
Bellair.

It had been prearranged by Madeline and Hagar that, in case of any
event which should delay the return of the former on the day
appointed, the latter was to visit the post-office and look for
tidings through that medium. Madeline had been due at Oakley the day
before, and so, of course, to-day Hagar would be in attendance at the
office.

Dr. Vaughan had written, at the moment of quitting his office to visit
his patient, a hasty supplement to Madeline's letter, stating that he
was delayed one train, but not to give him up if he did not appear
that evening. He would certainly come on the next day's train.

Clarence was somewhat fatigued as he entered the railway carriage,
having spent the entire previous night at the bedside of his patient.
He went forward to the smoking car, thinking to refresh himself with a
weed.

Four men were engrossed in a game of cards not far from him. As they
became more deeply interested, and their voices more distinct above
the roar of the cars, something in the tones of one of the men caught
his ear, reminding him of some voice he had sometime heard or known.
The speaker sat with his back to the young man, and nothing of his
countenance visible save the tips of two huge ears. These, too, had a
familiar look.

Clarence arose and sauntered to the end of the car, in order to get a
view of the face that, he felt assured, was not unknown to him.

The man was absorbed in his game and never once glanced up. Our hero
having taken a good look at the not very prepossessing face, returned
to his seat. He had recognized the man. It was Jarvis, the detective
who had been recently employed by him to shadow Lucian Davlin.

It was not a remarkable thing that Jarvis should leave the city on the
same train with himself, but the circumstance, nevertheless, set
Clarence thinking. Could it be possible that the man had found
something to arouse his suspicions, and w