"The East Anglian, sir," said he, "is about the last place where he
would dare to show himself. Why, there isn't a station-master, there
isn't a guard, there isn't a porter, who doesn't know Mr. Dwerrihouse
by sight as well as he knows his own face in the looking-glass; or who
wouldn't telegraph for the police as soon as he had set eyes on him
at any point along the line. Bless you, sir! there's been a standing
order out against him ever since the twenty-fifth of September last."
"And yet," pursued my friend, "a gentleman who travelled down
yesterday from London to Clayborough by the afternoon express
testifies that he saw Mr. Dwerrihouse in the train, and that Mr.
Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater station."
"Quite impossible, sir," replied the station-master, promptly.
"Why impossible?"
"Because there is no station along the line where he is so well known,
or where he would run so great a risk. It would be just running his
head into the lion's mouth. He would have been mad to come nigh
Blackwater station; and if he had come, he would have been arrested
before he left the platform.
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