“Ah, good evening,” replied Nick. He patted his sides and tried to look somewhat tipsy and confused, which was not hard. “I’m afraid I seem to have lost my ticket. And my coat. And for that matter my tie. But if I could make a telephone call, I’m sure everything can be put right.”

“Undergraduate, are you, sir?” asked the inspector. “Put on the train by your friends?”

“Something like that,” admitted Nick.

“I’ll have your name and college to start with,” said the inspector stolidly. “Then we can see about a telephone call.”

“Nicholas Sayre,” replied Nick. “Sunbere. Though technically I’m not up this term.”

“Sayre?” asked the inspector. “Would you be . . .”

“My uncle, I’m afraid,” said Nick. “That’s whom I need to call. At the Golden Sheaf Hotel, near Applethwick. I’m sure that if there is a fine to pay, I’ll be able to sort something out.”

“You’ll just have to purchase a ticket before you leave the station,” said the inspector. “As for the phone call, follow me and you can—”

He stopped talking as Nick suddenly turned away from him and stared up at the pedestrian bridge that crossed the railway tracks. To the right, in the direction of the station hotel and most of the town, everything was normal, the bridge crowded with passengers off the Flyer eager to get to the hotel or home. But to the lonely left, the electric lights on the wrought-iron lampposts were flickering and going out. One after the other, each one died just as two porters passed by, wheeling a very long, tall box.

“It must be the . . . but Dorrance was at least fifteen minutes ahead of the Flyer!”

“You’re involved in one of Mr. Dorrance’s japes, are you?” The inspector smiled. “His train just came in on the old track. Private trains aren’t allowed on the express line. Hey! Sir! Come back!”

Nick ran, vaulting the ticket inspection barrier, the inspector’s shouts ignored behind him. All his resignation burned away in an instant. The creature was here, and he was still the only one who knew about it.

Two policemen belatedly moved to intercept him before the stairs, but they were too slow. Nick jumped up the steps three at a time. He almost fell at the top step, but turned the movement into a flèche, launching himself into a sprint across the bridge.

At the top of the stairs at the other end, he slowed and drew his dagger. Down below, at the side of the road, the tall box was lying on its side, open. One of the two porters was sprawled next to it, his throat ripped out.

There was a row of shops on the other side of the street, all shuttered and dark. The single lamppost was also dark. The moon was lower now, and the shadows deeper. Nick walked down the steps, dagger ready, the Charter Marks swimming on the blade bright enough to shed light. He could hear police whistles behind him and knew that they would be there in moments, but he spared no attention from the street.