foreman porter? And then a ticket collector? And then the
inspector? And then a casual post-man? And then did you come across your
original porter and try him again?"

She admitted the list without a blush.

"And now tell me all about your dear lost one--a weak, helpless man, no
doubt?"

"It was my husband," she explained.

"A medium-sized man, in a macintosh and a straw hat, of course?"

She acquiesced.

"But none the less," continued the official, "a man of sterling worth?
You do not think he can be in some lost property office _en route_,
waiting to be called for?"

The suggestion was an attractive one, but was rejected. "Then," he said,
"let us go and discuss this intimate tragedy in some less public spot."

He took her to his office and begged her to be seated. "Repose all
confidence in me, Madam," he said, "for I am not without experience in
husbands. Good fellows on the whole, with their gladstone bags and their
pince-nez and their unmistakable respectability. But somehow they have
not acquired the knack of arriving when they are expected. Yours is the
seventh who has failed us by this train. True, the other six were coming
from Liverpool, whereas the 6.30 has come from London, but that is no
excuse for them or us."

"My husband is coming from London," she asserted, searching in her
reticule for documentary evidence.

He looked out of the window, avoiding her eye. "In less than twenty
minutes we have a nice fat competent train arriving partly from
Birmingham, partly from Manchester, partly from Sheffield and partly
from Birkenhead. There is even a dusty bit at the end which will have
come all the way from Scotland, though why I cannot say. It will be
simply full of husbands; you wouldn't care to try it, at any rate to let
us show it you?"

"But my husband," she repeated.

"Is essentially a London man? Madam, we do not wish you to take any of
these husbands we shall show you if they do not suit your requirements;
but do let us show them you."

"I know that my husband is coming from London," she persisted.

"Believe me, Madam," he protested, "I should not accuse you of being
mistaken, even if your husband should prove to be in this train I
recommend. He might have deceived you."

She refused to budge. "My husband's postcard says he is coming in the
6.30 train from London. The train has come and he is not in it."

The station-master asked to be allowed to see the postcard, not, he
explained, bec