it like a candle-snuffer, you know, the hat I mean."
Again the man nodded comprehendingly. He was a most unusual guard, Beresford decided.
"I'll be back in about twenty minutes, sir," said the man, and he disappeared.
Beresford lighted a cigarette and, putting his hat and stick on the rack, leaned back and smoked contentedly. This was indeed a day of happenings. Not only had he found the Rain-Girl; but he had stumbled across an official who clearly ought to have been in the diplomatic service. The Foreign Office was notoriously lacking in diplomatists. Tact was as little likely to be found there as in a nagging wife; yet here was a man, an ordinary guard on the South-Eastern and Chatham Railway, who combined the discretion of a Lord Chesterfield with the tact of a rising politician. It promised to be a wonderful day.
Presently the guard returned and, with perfect composure of feature, informed Beresford that there were two ladies answering to his description, one was bound for Folkestone, and the man rather thought that this must be the one, and the other for Boulogne.
"So I had better change your ticket, sir?" he suggested.
This man was indeed a paragon, not only of discretion, but of economy. Beresford handed him the slip.
"Make it out to the station I get out at," he said, "and keep the difference for yourself."
