I laid it down, and found that we were approaching the station at which I had got out yesterday.

The potato-digging station-master had been gingered up into some activity, for the west-going train was waiting to let us pass, and from it had descended three men who were asking him questions.

I supposed that they were the local police, who had been stirred up by Scotland Yard, and had traced me as far as this one-horse siding.
Sitting well back in the shadow I watched them carefully.

One of them had a book, and took down notes.

The old potato-digger seemed to have turned peevish, but the child who had collected my ticket was talking volubly.