er. Platform No. 5 was completely deserted as I emerged breathless
from the long staircase and I had no difficulty in getting into the last
first-class carriage unobserved. I sat down by the window on the far
side of the carriage.

Alongside it ran the brown panels and gold lettering of a German
restaurant car.

I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to seven. There was no sign of
my mysterious friend. I wondered vaguely, too, what had become of my
porter. True, there was nothing of importance in Semlin's bag, but a
traveller with luggage always commands more confidence than one without.

Five minutes to seven! Still no word from the guide. The minutes ticked
away. By Jove! I was going to miss the train. But I sat resolutely in my
corner. I had put my trust in this man. I would trust him to the last.

Suddenly his face appeared in the window at my elbow. The door was flung
open.

"Quick!" he whispered in my ear, "follow me."

"My things ..." I gasped with one foot on the foot-board of the other
train. At the same moment the train began to move.

The guide pointed to the carriage into which I had clambered.

"The porter ..." I cried from the open door, thinking he had not
understood me.

The guide pointed towards the carriage again, then tapped himself on the
chest with a significant smile.

The next moment he had disappeared and I had not even thanked him.

The Berlin train bumped ponderously out of the station. Peering
cautiously out of the carriage, I caught a glimpse of the waiter, Karl,
hurrying down the platform. With him was a swarthy, massively built man
who leaned heavily on a stick and limped painfully as he ran. One of his
feet, I could see, was misshapen and the sweat was pouring down his
face.

I would have liked to wave my hand to the pair, but I prudently drew
back out of sight of the platform.

Caution, caution, caution, must henceforward be my watchword.

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM

I have often remarked in life that there are days when some benevolent
deity seems to be guiding one's every action. On such days, do what you
will, you cannot go wrong. As the Berlin train bumped thunderously over
the culverts spanning the canals between the tall, grey houses of
Rotterdam and rushed out imperiously into the plain of windmills and
pollards beyond, I reflected that this must be my good day, so kindly
had some fairy godmother shepherded my footsteps since I