Hugh Stanbury went down on the Saturday, by the early express to Exeter, on his road to Lessboro’. He took his ticket through to Lessboro’, not purposing to stay at Exeter; but, from the exigencies of the various trains, it was necessary that he should remain for half an hour at the Exeter Station. This took place on the Saturday, and Colonel Osborne’s visit to the Clock House had been made on the Friday. Colonel Osborne had returned to Lessboro’, had slept again at Mrs Clegg’s house, and returned to London on the Saturday. It so happened that, he also was obliged to spend half an hour at the Exeter Station, and that his half-hour, and Hugh Stanbury’s half-hour, were one and the same. They met, therefore, as a matter of course, upon the platform. Stanbury was the first to see the other, and he found that he must determine on the spur of the moment what he would say, and what he would do. He had received no direct commission from Trevelyan as to his meeting with Colonel Osborne. Trevelyan had declared that, as to the matter of quarrelling, he meant to retain the privilege of doing that for himself; but Stanbury had quite understood that this was only the vague expression of an angry man. The Colonel had taken a glass of sherry, and had lighted a cigar, and was quite comfortable having thrown aside, for a time, that consciousness of the futility of his journey which had perplexed him when Stanbury accosted him.

‘What! Mr Stanbury how do you do? Fine day, isn’t it? Are you going up or down?’

‘I’m going to see my own people at Nuncombe Putney, a village, beyond Lessboro’,’ said Hugh.

‘Ah indeed.’ Colonel Osborne of course perceived it once that as this man was going to the house at which he had just been visiting, it would be better that he should himself explain what he had done. If he were to allow this mention of Nuncombe Putney to pass without saying that he himself had been there, he would be convicted of at least some purpose of secrecy in what he had been doing. ‘Very strange,’ said he; ‘I was at Nuncombe Putney myself yesterday.’

‘I know you were,’ said Stanbury.

‘And how did you know it?’ There had been a tone of anger in Stanbury’s voice which Colonel Osborne had at once appreciated, and which made him assume a similar one. As they spoke there was a man standing in a corner close by the bookstall, with his eye upon them, and that man was Bozzle, the ex-policeman who was doing his duty with sedulous activity by seeing ‘the Colonel’ back to London. Now Bozzle did not know Hugh Stanbury, and was angry with himself that, he should be so ignorant. It is the pride of a detective ex-policeman to know everybody that comes in his way.

‘Well, I had been so informed. My friend Trevelyan knew that you were there — or that you were going there.’

‘I don’t care who knew that I was going there,’ said the Colonel.

‘I won’t pretend to understand how that may be, Colonel Osborne; but I think you must be aware, after, what took place in Curzon Street, that it would have been better that you should not have attempted to see Mrs Trevelyan. Whether you have seen her I do not know.’

‘What business is it of yours, Mr Stanbury, whether I have seen that lady or not?’

‘Unhappily for me, her husband has made it my business.’

‘Very unhappily for you, I should say.’

‘And the lady is staying at my mother’s house.’

‘I presume the lady is not a prisoner in your mother’s house, and that your mother’s hospitality is not so restricted but that her guest may see an old friend under her roof.’ This, Colonel Osborne said with an assumed look of almost righteous indignation, which was not at all lost upon Bozzle. They had returned back towards the bookstall, and Bozzle, with his eyes fixed on a copy of the ‘D. R.’ which he had just bought, was straining his ears to the utmost to catch what was being said.

‘You best know whether you have seen her or not.’

‘I have seen her.’

‘Then I shall take leave to tell you, Colonel Osborne, that you have acted in a most unfriendly way, and have done that which must tend to keep an affectionate husband apart from his wife.’

‘Sir, I don’t at all understand this kind of thing addressed to me. The father of the lady you are speaking of has been my most intimate friend for thirty years.’ After all, the Coonel was a mean man when he could take pride in his youth, and defend himself on the score of his age, in one and the same proceeding.

‘I have nothing further to say,’ replied Stanbury.

‘You have said too much already, Mr Stanbury.’

‘I think not, Colonel Osborne. You have, I fear, done an incredible deal of mischief by going to Nuncombe Putney; and, after all that you have heard on the subject, you must have known that it would be mischievous. I cannot understand how you can force yourself about a man’s wife against the man’s expressed wish.’

‘Sir, I didn’t force myself upon anybody. Sir, I went down to see an old friend and a remarkable piece of antiquity. And, when another old friend was in the neighbourhood, close by, one of the oldest friends I have in the world, wasn’t I to go and see her? God bless my soul! What business is it of yours? I never heard such impudence in my life!’ Let the charitable reader suppose that Colonel Osborne did not know that he was lying — that he really thought, when he spoke, that he had gone down to Lessboro’ to see the remarkable piece of antiquity.

‘Good morning,’ said Hugh Stanbury, turning on his heels and walking away. Colonel Osborne shook himself, inflated his cheeks, and blew forth the breath out of his mouth, put his thumbs up to the armholes of his waistcoat, and walked about the platform as though he thought it to be incumbent on him to show that he was somebody, somebody that ought not to be insulted, somebody, perhaps, whom a very pretty woman might prefer to her own husband, in spite of a small difference in age. He was angry, but not quite so much angry as proud. And he was safe, too. He thought that he was safe. When he should come to account for himself and his actions to his old friend, Sir Marmaduke, he felt that he would be able to show that he had been, in all respects, true to friendship. Sir Marmaduke had unfortunately given his daughter to a jealous, disagreeable fellow, and the fault all lay in that. As for Hugh Stanbury he would simply despise Hugh Stanbury, and have done with it.

Mr Bozzle, though he had worked hard in the cause, had heard but a word or two. Eaves-droppers seldom do hear more than that. A porter had already told him who was Hugh Stanbury, that he was Mr Hugh Stanbury, and that his aunt lived at Exeter. And Bozzle, knowing that the lady about whom he was concerned was living with a Mrs Stanbury at the house he had been watching, put two and two together with his natural cleverness. ‘God bless my soul! what business is it of yours?’ Those words were nearly all that Bozzle had been able to hear; but even those sufficiently indicated a quarrel. ‘The lady’ was living with Mrs Stanbury, having been so placed by her husband; and young Stanbury was taking the lady’s part! Bozzle began to fear that the husband had not confided in him with that perfect faith which he felt to be essentially necessary to the adequate performance of the duties of his great profession. A sudden thought, however, struck him. Something might be done on the journey up to London. He at once made his way back to the ticket-window and exchanged his ticket second-class for first-class. It was a noble deed, the expense falling all upon his own pocket; for, in the natural course of things, he would have charged his employers with the full first-class fare. He had seen Colonel Osborne seat himself in a carriage, and within two minutes he was occupying the opposite place. The Colonel was aware that he had noticed the man’s face lately, but did not know where.

‘Very fine summer weather, sir,’ said Bozzle.

‘Very fine,’ said the Colonel, burying himself behind a newspaper.

‘They is getting up their wheat nicely in these parts, sir.’

The answer to this was no more than a grunt. But Bozzle was not offended. Not to be offended is the special duty of all policemen, in and out of office; and the journey from Exeter to London was long, and was all before him.

‘A very nice little secluded village is Nuncombe Putney,’ said Bozzle, as the train was leaving the Salisbury station.

At Salisbury two ladies had left the carriage, no one else had got in, and Bozzle. was alone with the Colonel.

‘I dare say,’ said the Colonel, ‘who by this time had relinquished his shield, and who had begun to compose himself for sleep, or to pretend to compose himself, as soon as he heard Bozzle’s voice. He had been looking at Bozzle, and though he had not discovered the man’s trade, had told himself that his companion was a thing of dangers a thing to be avoided, by one engaged, as had been he himself, on a special and secret mission.

‘Saw you there calling at the Clock House,’ said Bozzle.

‘Very likely,&rsquo............