Elster was
the name of the family at Hartledon. He wondered whether this could be
one of them, or whether the name was merely a coincidence.
"There was no portmanteau left, was there, Jones?" asked the
station-master.
"There couldn't have been," returned the porter, touching his cap to the
stranger. "I wasn't on last night; Jim was; but it would have been put in
the office for sure; and there's not a ghost of a thing in it this
morning."
"It must have been taken on to Garchester," remarked the traveller; and,
turning to the guard, he gave him directions to look after it, and
despatch it back again by the first train, slipping at the same time a
gratuity into his hand.
The guard touched his hat humbly; he now knew who the gentleman was. And
he went into inward repentance for slamming the carriage-door, as he got
into his box, and the engine and train puffed on.
"You'll send it up as soon as it comes," said the traveller to the
station-master.
"Where to, sir?"
The stranger raised his eyes in slight surprise, and pointed to the house
in the distance. He had assumed that he was known.
"To Hartledon."
Then he _was_ one of the family! The station-master touched his hat.
Mr. Jones, in the background, touched his, and for the first time the
traveller's eye fell upon him as he was turning to leave the platform.
"Why, Jones! It's never you?"
"Yes, it is, sir.
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