He had quite forgotten his youthful past, and even the more recent lucky portmanteau; remembered nothing, perhaps, but the pretty face of the daguerreotype that had fascinated him.

There seemed to be no reason why he should not live and die as Shelby Fowler.
His business a year later took him to Europe.

He was entering a train at one of the great railway stations of London, when the porter, who had just deposited his portmanteau in a compartment, reappeared at the window followed by a young lady in mourning.
"Beg pardon, sir, but I handed you the wrong portmanteau.

That belongs to this young lady.

This is yours." Flint glanced at the portmanteau on the seat before him.