The Vanished Messenger | Page 3

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The Vanished Messenger
by E. Phillips Oppenheim
CHAPTER I
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. There were no signs
of other passengers, no other luggage. As a matter of fact, according to
the time-table, no train was due to leave the station or to arrive at it, on
this particular platform, for several hours.
Down at the other end of the platform the wooden barrier was thrust
back, and a porter with some luggage upon a barrow made his noisy
approach. He was followed by a tall young man in a grey tweed suit
and a straw hat on which were the colours of a famous cricket club.
The inspector watched them curiously. "Lost his way, I should think,"

he observed.
The station-master nodded. "It looks like the young man who missed
the boat train," he remarked. "Perhaps he has come to beg a lift."
The young man in question made steady progress up the platform. His
hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, and his forehead
was contracted in a frown. As he approached more closely, he singled
out Mr. John P. Dunster, and motioning his porter to wait, crossed to
the edge of the track and addressed him.
"Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?"
Mr. John P. Dunster turned at once and faced his questioner. He did so
without haste - with a certain deliberation, in fact - yet his eyes were
suddenly bright and keen. He was neatly dressed, with the quiet
precision which seems as a rule to characterise the travelling American.
He was apparently of a little less than middle-age, clean-shaven,
broad-shouldered, with every appearance of physical strength. He
seemed like a man on wires, a man on the alert, likely to miss nothing.
"Are you Mr. John P. Dunster?" the youth asked.
"I carry my visiting-card in my hand, sir," the other replied, swinging
his dressing-case around. "My name is John P. Dunster."
The young man's expression was scarcely ingratiating. To