In the second car, two elderly spinster sisters, twirling parasols and chattering like magpies were helped down by the friendly porter, who took their valises to a waiting surrey driven by a short little fat man with horn rimmed spectacles. Well, now, where was Maude Rivers? There was a stunning young woman alighting from the last coach, with a parasol and a pink flouncy dress which modestly hid even her ankles. She had golden hair and a swan- like neck, and her dress was decorous to the utmost, but it did not hide from him the splendid development of her bosom. Charles Cameron eyed the blonde arrival with a glow of sensual appreciation in his eye. She was still in her teens, to be sure, but this did not prevent his admiring the magnificent formature of her haunches and bosom and her legs. To be sure, the word “ legs” was one that was highly improper in polite society, but among men of the world, one knew precisely what was meant by it. And despite the bustles and stays and voluminous petticoats which the opposite sex were wont to wear in these days, a discerning male with experience in the boudoir could ascertain what charms were hidden by the thick concealment of garments and of undergarments as well. Charles Cameron rather prided himself on being able to appraise a figure of a woman and detect her flaws and virtues in the twinkling of an eye.

No one else had descended from the three coaches, and now the stationmaster was talking to the engineer, who had once more ascended to his cab and was ready to start on the rest of the journey. Meanwhile, the golden haired young girl, for such she was, approached in his direction, with the porter carrying two of her valises and looking about anxiously, aware that the train was about to start up without him. She espied Charles Cameron and in a sweet voice inquired, “ Are you by any chance Mr. Charles Cameron, sir?”