he test. Once more, good night."

So we parted for that night, and met again in the breakfast-room at
half past eight next morning. It was a hurried, silent, uncomfortable
meal. None of us had slept well, and all were thinking of the same
subject. Mrs. Jelf had evidently been crying; Jelf was impatient
to be off; and both Captain Prendergast and myself felt ourselves
to be in the painful position of outsiders, who are involuntarily
brought into a domestic trouble. Within twenty minutes after we
had left the breakfast-table the dog-cart was brought round, and
my friend and I were on the road to Clayborough.

"Tell you what it is, Langford," he said, as we sped along between
the wintry hedges, "I do not much fancy to bring up Dwerrihouse's
name at Clayborough. All the officials know that he is my wife's
relation, and the subject just now is hardly a pleasant one. If
you don't much mind, we will take the 11.10 to Blackwater. It's
an important station, and we shall stand a far better chance of
picking up information there than at Clayborough."

So we took the 11.10, which happened to be an express, and, arriving
at Blackwater about a quarter before twelve, proceeded at once to
prosecute our inquiry.

We began by asking for the station-master,--a big, blunt, business-like
person, who at once averred that he knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly
well, and that there was no director on the line whom he had seen
and spoken to so frequently.

"He used to be down here two or three times a week, about three
months ago," said he, "when the new line was first set afoot; but
since then, you know, gentlemen--"

He paused, significantly.

Jelf flushed scarlet.

"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, "we know all about that. The point
now to be ascertained is whether anything has been seen or heard
of him lately."

"Not to my knowledge," replied the station-master.

"He is not known to have been down the line any time yesterday,
for instance?"

The station-master shook his head.

"The East Anglian, sir," said he, "is about the last place where
he would dare to show himself. Why, there isn't a station-master,
there isn't a guard, there isn't a porter, who doesn't know
Mr. Dwerrihouse by sight as well as he knows his own face in the
looking-glass; or who wouldn't telegraph for the police as soon
as he had set eyes on him at any point along the line. Bless you,
sir! there's been a standing order out against him ever since the
twent