The landlord of the Thorold Arms was one evening talking to his friend the station-master on the platform of the Beaglescombe station when the last train from Wolverhampton came in. Seldom more than two or three persons got out here, and most frequently none at all; and if the landlord of the Thorold Arms had depended on the customers which the railway brought him for support, his income would have been a very meagre one indeed. Rather to his surprise, on the evening in question, a well-dressed, good-looking young man got out of a carriage, dragging after him a portmanteau, and was left by the departing
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