S., Nottingham," emblazoned on the
luggage.

The remaining man, carrying his own grips, which were not initialed,
set them down in the gate and felt in his pocket for his transportation.

This fifth person had appeared suddenly after the line of four had
formed in front of old Sammy at the gate; he had taken his place with
them only after scrutiny of them and of the station all around. Like
the Englishman's, his ticket was a strip which originally had held
coupons for the Pacific voyage and some indefinite journey in Asia
before; unlike the Englishman's,--and his baggage did not bear the
pasters of the Nippon Yusen Kaisha,--the ticket was close to the date
when it would have expired. It bore upon the line where the purchaser
signed, the name "Philip D. Eaton" in plain, vigorous characters
without shading or flourish. An American, and too young to have gained
distinction in any of the ordinary ways by which men lift themselves
above others, he still made a profound impression upon Connery. There
was something about him which said, somehow, that these strips of
transportation were taking him home after a long and troublesome
absence. He combined, in some strange way, exaltation with weariness.
He was, plainly, carefully observant of all that went on about him,
even these commonplace formalities connected with taking the train; and
Connery felt that it was by premeditation that he was the last to pass
the gate.

As a sudden eddy of the gale about the shed blew the ticket from old
Sammy's cold fingers, the young man stooped to recover it. The wind
blew off his cloth cap as he did so, and as he bent and straightened
before old Sammy, the old man suddenly gasped; and while the traveler
pulled on his cap, recovered his ticket and hurried down the platform
to the train, the gateman stood staring after him as though trying to
recall who the man presenting himself as Philip D. Eaton was.

Connery stepped beside the old man.

"Who is it, Sammy?" he demanded.

"Who?" Sammy repeated. His eyes were still fixed on the retreating
figure. "Who? I don't know."

The gateman mumbled, repeating to himself the names of the famous, the
great, the notorious, in his effort to fit one to the man who had just
passed. Connery awaited the result, his gaze following Eaton until he
disappeared aboard the train. No one else belated and bound for the
Eastern Express was in sight. The president's order to the conductor
and to the di