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16 have expired. It bore upon the line where the purchaser signed, the name "Philip D. Eaton" in plain, vigorous characters without shading or flourish. An American, and too young to have gained distinction in any of the ordinary ways by which men lift themselves above others, he still made a profound impression upon Connery. There was something about him which said, somehow, that these strips of transportation were taking him home after a long and troublesome absence. He combined, in some strange way, exaltation with weariness. He was, plainly, carefully observant of all that went on about him, even these commonplace formalities connected with taking the train; and Connery felt that it was by premeditation that he was the last to pass the gate.

As a sudden eddy of the gale about the shed blew the ticket from old Sammy's cold fingers, the young man stooped to recover it. The wind blew off his cloth cap as he did so, and as he bent and straightened before old Sammy, the old man suddenly gasped; and while the traveler pulled on his cap, recovered his ticket and hurried down the platform to the train, the gateman stood staring after him as though trying to recall who the man presenting himself as Philip D. Eaton was.

Connery stepped beside the old man.

"Who is it, Sammy?" he demanded.

"Who?" Sammy repeated. His eyes were still fixed on the retreating figure. "Who? I don't know."

The gateman mumbled, repeating to himself the names of the famous, the great, the notorious, in his effort to fit one to the man who had just passed. Connery awaited the result, his gaze following Eaton until he disappeared aboard the train. No one else belated and bound for the Eastern Express was in sight. The presi-