Hugh Stanbury went down on the Saturday, by the early express to Exeter, on his road to Lessboro’.  He took his ticket through to Lessboro’, not purposing to stay at Exeter; but, from the exigencies of the various trains, it was necessary that he should remain for half an hour at the Exeter Station.  This took place on the Saturday, and Colonel Osborne’s visit to the Clock House had been made on the Friday.  Colonel Osborne had returned to Lessboro’, had slept again at Mrs Clegg’s house, and returned to London on the Saturday.  It so happened that, he also was obliged to spend half an hour at the Exeter Station, and that his half-hour, and Hugh Stanbury’s half-hour, were one and the same.  They met, therefore, as a matter of course, upon the platform.  Stanbury was the first to see the other, and he found that he must determine on the spur of the moment what he would say, and what he would do.  He had received no direct commission from Trevelyan as to his meeting with Colonel Osborne.  Trevelyan had declared that, as to the matter of quarrelling, he meant to retain the privilege of doing that for himself; but Stanbury had quite understood that this was only the vague expression of an angry man.  The Colonel had taken a glass of sherry, and had lighted a cigar, and was quite comfortable having thrown aside, for a time, that consciousness of the futility of his journey which had perplexed him when Stanbury accosted him.

’What!  Mr Stanbury how do you do?  Fine day, isn’t it?  Are you going up or down?’

’I’m going to see my own people at Nuncombe Putney, a village, beyond Lessboro’,’ said Hugh.

‘Ah indeed.’  Colonel Osborne of course perceived it once that as this man was going to the house at which he had just been visiting, it would be better that he should himself explain what he had done.  If he were to allow this mention of Nuncombe Putney to pass without saying that he himself had been there, he would be convicted of at least some purpose of secrecy in what he had been doing.  ‘Very strange,’ said he; ’I was at Nuncombe Putney myself yesterday.’

‘I know you were,’ said Stanbury.

‘And how did you know it?’ There had been a tone of anger in Stanbury’s voice which Colonel Osborne had at once appreciated, and which made him assume a similar one.  As they spoke there was a man standing in a corner close by the bookstall, with his eye upon them, and that man was Bozzle, the ex-policeman who was doing his duty with sedulous activity by seeing ‘the Colonel’ back to London.  Now Bozzle did not know Hugh Stanbury, and was angry with himself that, he should be so ignorant.  It is the pride of a detective ex-policeman to know everybody that comes in his way.

’Well, I had been so informed.  My friend Trevelyan knew that you were there—­or that you were going there.’

‘I don’t care who knew that I was going there,’ said the Colonel.

’I won’t pretend to understand how that may be, Colonel Osborne; but I think you must be aware, after, what took place in Curzon Street, that it would have been better that you should not have attempted to see Mrs Trevelyan.  Whether you have seen her I do not know.’