there after a brief stop in London.

Down below, among the second-class passengers, Mr. Noah Hawker paced to
and fro, gazing meditatively toward the Shakespeare Cliff. Mr. Hawker,
to give him the name by which he was known in Scotland Yard circles, was
a man of fifty, five feet nine in height, and rather stockily built. He
was lantern-jawed and dark-haired, with a coarse, black mustache curled
up at the ends like a pair of buffalo horns, and so strong a beard that
his cheeks were the color of blue ink, though he had shaved only three
hours before. His long frieze overcoat, swinging open, disclosed beneath
a German-made suit of a bad cut and very loud pattern. His soft hat,
crushed in, was perched to one side; a big horseshoe pin and a scarlet
cravat reposed on a limited space of pink shirt-front.

There was about one chance in ten of guessing his calling. He looked
equally like a successful sporting man, an ex-prize fighter, a barman,
a racing tout, a book-maker, or a public house thrower-out. But the most
unprejudiced observer would never have taken him for a gentleman.

It was a thrilling moment when the _Calais-Douvres_, slipping between
the waves, ran close in to the granite pier. She accomplished the feat
safely, and was quickly made fast. The gangway was thrown across, and
there was a mad rush of passengers hurrying to get ashore. A babel of
shouting voices broke loose: "London train ready!" "Here you are, sir!"
"Luggage, sir?" "Extry! extry!"

Sir Lucius Chesney, who was rarely disturbed by anything, showed on
this occasion a fussy solicitude about his trunks and boxes; nor was
he appeased until he had seen them all on a truck, waiting for the
inspection of the customs officers. Mr. Hawker, slouching along the pier
with his ulster collar turned up and his hat well down over his eyes,
observed the military-looking gentleman and then the prominent
white-lettered name on the luggage. He passed on after an instant's
hesitation.

"Sir Lucius Chesney!" he muttered. "It's queer, but I'll swear I've
heard that name before. Now, where could it have been? The bloke's face
ain't familiar--I never ran across him. But the name? Ah, hang me if I
don't think I've got it!"

Mr. Hawker did not get into the London train, though his goal was
the metropolis. He left the pier, and as he walked with apparent
carelessness through the town--he had no luggage--he took an occasional
crafty survey over his shoulder, as a man might do