known to one another. Victor and the curate of St. Barnabas gained the street. The former jumped into a hansom, gave the driver an address, and drove rapidly away, while the latter man walked swiftly across the station yard towards the terminus of the Brighton and South Coast Railway.
Pierre Rouillier, however, acted in a manner that was even more strange. Without emerging into the street, he passed quickly along the subway leading to the Chatham and Dover station. Gaining the platform, he glanced up at the great clock. It was twenty-six minutes past eight. Without hesitation he went to the cloakroom, and, producing a ticket, was handed a large valise, a rug, and a thick long ulster of dark tweed. Divesting himself of the light coat he wore, he donned the garment, then, beckoning a porter to carry his bag, went to the booking-office and purchased a ticket for Brussels.
"Just in time for the Continental train, am I not?" he asked of the man.
"Yes, sir; she leaves at eight-thirty, sharp. This way, please."
They hurried together to where the train stood, and the man, after depositing the valise under the seat of an empty first-class compartment, received his tip and withdrew.
Pierre then entered, but before he had time to arrange his belongings and comfortably ensconce himself the guard slammed the door, and the train glided away on its journey to the sea.
Another had been added to the long list of London mysteries.
