There were very few people upon Platform Number Twenty-one of Liverpool Street Station at a quarter to nine on the evening of April 2--possibly because the platform in question is one of the most remote and least used in the great terminus.

The station-master, however, was there himself, with an inspector in attendance.

A dark, thick-set man, wearing a long travelling ulster and a Homburg hat, and carrying in his hand a brown leather dressing-case, across which was painted in black letters the name MR.

JOHN P.DUNSTER, was standing a few yards away, smoking a long cigar, and, to all appearance absorbed in studying the advertisements which decorated the grimy wall on the other side of the single track.

A couple of porters were seated upon a barrow which contained one solitary portmanteau.