The seconds, as they passed now,
became severally painful to his nerves. The ringing
of a bell somewhere beyond the barrier provoked within
him an impulse to tearful profanity.
Then suddenly everything was all right. A smooth-faced,
civilly-spoken young man came up, touched his hat, and asked:
"Will you kindly show me which is your luggage, sir?"
Thorpe, even while wondering what business of his it was,
indicated the glaringly new bags--and then only half
repressed a cry of pleasure at discovering that Lord
Plowden stood beside him.
"It's all right; my man will look out for your things,"
said the latter, as they shook hands. "We will go and get
our places."
The fat policeman at the gate touched his helmet.
A lean, elderly man in a sort of guard's uniform hobbled
obsequiously before them down the platform, opened to them
a first-class compartment with a low bow and a deprecatory
wave of the hand, and then impressively locked the door
upon them. "The engine will be the other way, my Lord,
after you leave Cannon Street," he remarked through
the open window, with earnest deference. "Are there any
of your bags that you want in the compartment with you?"
Plowden had nodded to the first remark. He shook
his head at the second. The elderly man at this,
with still another bow, flapped out a green flag which he
had been holding furled behind his back, and extended
it at arm's length.
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