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           Alltheslacknessofthepastmonthswasslippingfrommybones,andIsteppedoutlikeafour-year-old.By-and-byIcametoaswellofmoorlandwhichdippedtothevaleofalittleriver,andamileawayintheheatherIsawthesmokeofatrain.

           Thestation,whenIreachedit,provedtobeidealformypurpose.Themoorsurgeduparounditandleftroomonlyforthesingleline,theslendersiding,awaiting-room,anoffice,thestation-master’scottage,andatinyyardofgooseberriesandsweet-william.Thereseemednoroadtoitfromanywhere,andtoincreasethedesolationthewavesofatarnlappedontheirgreygranitebeachhalfamileaway.IwaitedinthedeepheathertillIsawthesmokeofaneast-goingtrainonthehorizon.ThenIapproachedthetinybooking-officeandtookaticketforDumfries.

           Theonlyoccupantsofthecarriagewereanoldshepherdandhisdog—awall-eyedbrutethatImistrusted.Themanwasasleep,andonthecushionsbesidehimwasthatmorning’sScotsman.EagerlyIseizedonit,forIfancieditwouldtellmesomething.

           ThereweretwocolumnsaboutthePortlandPlaceMurder,asitwascalled.MymanPaddockhadgiventhealarmandhadthemilkmanarrested.Poordevil,itlookedasifthelatterhadearnedhissovereignhardly;butformehehadbeencheapattheprice,forheseemedtohaveoccupiedthepoliceforthebetterpartoftheday.InthelatestnewsIfoundafurtherinstalmentofthestory.