There was silence for a moment or two, and the young man began to collect his fishing tackle and other belongings from the rack.

“My station is the next one,” he announced.

“I’ve never met your mother,” said Sletherby suddenly, “though we’ve corresponded several times. My introduction to her was through political friends. Does she resemble you at all in feature? I should rather like to be able to pick her out if she happened to be on the platform to meet me.”

“She’s supposed to be like me. She has the same dark brown hair and high colour; it runs in her family. I say, this is where I get out.”

“Goodbye,” said Sletherby.

“You’ve forgotten the three quid,” said the young man, opening the carriage-door and pitching his suitcase on to the platform.