“Suppose ’e ’as,” retorted the sergeant. “I can’t ’elp that. I told ’im to telephone ’ere if ’e did or to let them know at the Yard. I can’t do no more, can I? I better take a walk round, and you sit ’ere to see as they don’t come out. If they do, you be ready to take up this other bird’s trail and tell Puncheon to set ’ere till I come. An’ don’t let your bird see you talking to Puncheon, neether. And if they comes out and you see me a-follerin’ of them, then you foller on be’ind an’ keep yourself outer sight, see?”

Mr. Eagles saw clearly-as indeed he well might, for he knew quite as much about his duties as Sergeant Lumley. But the worm still rankled in the sergeant’s breast. Mr. Eagles strolled over to a case of humming-birds and gazed at it with absorbed interest, while Mr. Lumley went heavily up the steps, looking as much as possible like a country cousin bent on seeing the sights.

He had been in the entrance-hall about ten minutes, and had almost exhausted the humming-birds, when he saw something reflected in the glass case which made him sidle softly round so as to command a view of the staircase. A portly person in an overcoat and a top-hat was coming slowly down, one hand thrust deep into his overcoat pocket, the other swinging carelessly at his side. P.C. Eagles looked past him up the stair; there was no sign, either of Hector Puncheon or of Sergeant Lumley, and for a moment the constable hesitated. Then something caught his eye. In the gentleman’s left-hand overcoat pocket was a folded copy of the Morning Star.

There is nothing unusual about seeing a gentleman with a copy of the Morning Star. The readers of that great organ periodically write to the editor, giving statistics of the number of passengers on the 8.15 who read the Morning Star in preference to any other paper, and their letters are printed for all to read. Nevertheless, P.C. Eagles determined to take the risk. He scribbled a hasty note on the back of an envelope and walked across to the doorkeeper.

“If you see my friend that came in with me,” he said, “you might give him that and tell him I can’t wait any longer. I got to get along to my work.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gentleman in the overcoat pass out through the swing-door. Unobtrusively, he followed him.

Upstairs, at the top of a dark staircase barred by a trestle bearing the words “No Entrance,” Sergeant Lumley was bending anxiously over the inanimate form of Hector Puncheon. The reporter was breathing heavily in a way the sergeant did not like, and there was a nasty contused wound on his temple.

“Trust your amachoors to make a mess of it,” reflected Sergeant Lumley, bitterly. “I only ’ope as that Eagles ’as got ’is ’ead screwed on the right way. But there you are. I can’t be in two places at once.”

The man in the overcoat walked quietly down the street towards the Underground Station. He did not look back. A few yards behind him, P.C. Eagles sauntered casually along in his wake. His eyes were on his quarry. Neither of them saw a third man, who emerged from nowhere in particular and followed a few yards behind P.C. Eagles. No passer-by gave so much as a second glance to the little procession as it crossed Cromwell Road and debouched upon the station.

The man in the overcoat glanced at the taxi-rank; then he seemed to change his mind. For the first time, he looked back. All he saw was P.C. Eagles purchasing a newspaper, and in this sight there was nothing alarming. The other follower he could not have seen, because, like the Spanish Fleet, he was not yet in sight, though P.C. Eagles might have seen him, had he been looking in his direction. The gentleman appeared to reject the notion of a taxi and turned into the station entrance. Mr. Eagles, his eyes apparently intent upon a headline about Food-Taxes, wandered in after him, and was in time to follow his example in taking a ticket for Charing Cross. Pursued and pursuer entered the lift together, the gentleman walking across to the farther gate, Eagles remaining modestly on the hither side. There were already about half a dozen people, mostly women, in the lift, and just as the gate was shutting, another man came in hurriedly. He passed Eagles and took up a central position among the group of women. At the bottom of the shaft, they all emerged in a bunch, the strange man pressing rather hastily past the man in the overcoat, and leading the way towards the platform, where an eastward-bound train was just running in.

What exactly happened then, P.C. Eagles was not quite clear about at the time, though, in the light of after events he saw plainly one or two things that were not obvious to him then. He saw the third man standing close to the edge of the platform, carrying a thin walking-stick. He saw the man in the overcoat walk past him and then suddenly stop and stagger in his walk. He saw the man with the stick fling out his hand and grasp the other by the arm, saw the two waver together on the edge and heard a shriek from a woman. Then both toppled together under the advancing train.

Through the uproar, Eagles shouldered his way.

‘“Ere,” he said, “I’m an officer of the law. Stand aside, please.”

They stood aside, with the exception of a porter and another man, who were hauling out something between the train and the platform. An arm came up, and then a head-then the battered body of the third man, the one who had had the walking-stick. They laid him down on the platform bruised and bloody.

“Where’s the other?”

“Gone, poor chap.”

“Is that one dead?”

“Yes.”

“No, he ain’t.”

“Oh, Betty, I’m going to faint.”

“He’s all right-see! He’s opening his eyes.”

“Yes, but how about the other?”

“Do stop shoving.”

“Look out, that’s a policeman.”

“That’s the live rail down there.”

“Where’s a doctor? Send for a doctor.”

“Stand back, please. Stand right back.”

“Why don’t they shut off the electricity?”

“They have. That feller ran off to do it.”

“How’ll they get ’im out without moving the train?”

“Expect he’s all in little bits, pore chap.”

“That one tried to save ’im.”

“Looked as if he was took ill, or drunk-like.”

“Drunk, this time in the morning?”

“They ought to give ’im brandy.”

“Clear all this lot out,” said Eagles. “This one’ll do all right. The other’s done for, I suppose.”

“Smashed all to blazes. ’Orrible.”

“Then you can’t do him any good. Clear the station and get an ambulance and another police officer.”

“Right you are.”

“This one’s coming round,” put in the man who had helped to haul the victim up. “How are you feeling now, sir?”

“Bloody,” said the rescued man, faintly. Then, seeming to realize where he was, he added,

“What happened?”

“Why, sir, a poor gentleman fell off the platform and took you over with him,”

“Yes, of course. Is he all right?”

“Afraid he’s badly knocked about, sir. Ah!” as somebody ran up with a flask. “Take a pull at this, sir. Gently, you. Lift his head up. Don’t jerk him. Now then.”

“Ah!” said the man. “That’s better. All right. Don’t fuss. My spine’s all right and I don’t think anything’s broken to speak of.” He moved his arms and legs experimentally.

“Doctor’ll be here in a minute, sir.”

“Doctor be damned. I’m a doctor myself. Limbs all correct. Head apparently sound, though it aches like hell. Ribs-not so sure about those. Something gone there, I’m afraid. Pelvis intact, thank goodness.”

“Very glad to hear that,” said Eagles.

“It’s the footboard of the train that got me, I fancy. I remember being rolled round and round like a pat of butter between two whatsinames,” said the stranger, whose damaged ribs did not seem to impede his breathing altogether. “And I saw the wheels of the train get slower and stop, and I said to myself: ‘This is it. You’re for it, my lad. Time’s stopped and this is Eternity.’ But I see I was mistaken.”