train, and was, of course, on his way to Kelpieshaw.
I had one of the hotel porters with me, carrying my bag and my canvas, and when he had found me a seat I engaged his attention.
"There are two gentlemen standing at the door of a first-class compartment up there," I said. "Do you happen to know who they are?"
The man looked, and nodded.
"Don't know the older gentleman, sir," he replied. "He stopped at the hotel last night, but I didn't hear his name mentioned. The other gentleman's Mr. Pebling, sir."
"And who," I asked, "is Mr. Pebling?"
"Lawyer, sir—well-known lawyer in the town," he answered. "Pebling, Spilsby and Pebling, solicitors—Grey Street. Everybody knows him."
Accordingly, I departed for Kelpieshaw in an atmosphere of Law and Mystery—I imagined that atmosphere centring thickly around White Whiskers in his first-class compartment (I, as a matter of principle rather than pence, travelled third) and mingling with the smoke of his very excellent cigars. I
