She shook her head sombrely.  “Ah, you’re right there, sir.  An’ curious enough that’s the very identical remark my late ’usband was ser fond o’ makin’.  I remember ‘is sayin’ it to me the very night before ’e was knocked down by a bus.  Knocked down in Westminister ’e was, and runned over the body by both ’ind wheels.  ’E never got over it—­not as you might say reely got over it.  If ever ’e ate cheese after that it always give ’im a pain in ’is stomick.”

An apropos remark about “come wheel come woe” flashed into my mind, but before I could frame it in properly sympathetic language, a taxi drew up at the door with Gertie ’Uggins installed in state alongside the driver.

Both she and Mrs. Oldbury stood on the step, and waved farewell to me as I drove down the street.  I was quite sorry to leave them.  I felt that they both liked me in their respective ways, and my present list of amiably disposed acquaintances was so small that I objected to curtailing it by the most humble member.

All the way to Tilbury I occupied myself with the hackneyed but engrossing pursuit of pondering over my affairs.  Apart from my own private interest in the matter, which after all was a fairly poignant one, the mysterious adventure in which I was involved filled me with a profound curiosity.  Latimer’s dramatic re-entry on to the scene had thrown an even more sinister complexion over the whole business than it boasted before, and, like a man struggling with a jig-saw problem, I tried vainly to fit together the various pieces into some sort of possible solution.

I was still engaged in this interesting occupation when the train ran into Tilbury station.  Without waiting for a porter I collected my various belongings, and stepped out on to the platform.

McMurtrie had told me in his letter that he would arrange for some one to meet me; and looking round I caught sight of a burly red-faced gentleman in a tight jacket and a battered straw hat, sullenly eyeing the various passengers who had alighted.  I walked straight up to him.

“Are you waiting for me—­Mr. James Nicholson?” I asked.

He looked me up and down in a kind of familiar fashion that distinctly failed to appeal to me.

“That’s right,” he said.  Then as a sort of afterthought he added, “I gotter trap outside.”

“Have you?” I said.  “I’ve got a couple of bags inside, so you’d better come and catch hold of one of them.”

His unpleasantly red face grew even redder, and for a moment he seemed to meditate some spirited answer.  Then apparently he thought better of it, and slouching after me up the platform, possessed himself of the larger and heavier of my two bags, which I had carefully left for him.

The trap proved to be a ramshackle affair with an ill-kept but powerful-looking horse between the shafts.  I climbed up, and as I took my seat I observed to my companion that I wished first of all to call at the post-office.