"Yes, but . . ."

Explanations useless, we crossed the concourse as quickly as we could. To find, on platform 12, Ferguson, checking tickets. 

"Have you seen her? Have you seen the woman I was with?"

"No."

I'm beginning to get angry.

"You sent us to platform 1! Why didn't you come and get us?" 

Not even an attempt at an excuse. 

"Well, have you seen the woman I was with?" I continued.

"No," Ferguson declared, as if he'd never set eyes on me. 

"Sir, here, sir . . ." I swivelled round to see, behind Ferguson, another red-jacketed inspector pointing to a bag dumped against the barrier. It was mine.

"She left it for you." 

"Did she make the train?" 

"Yes." 

Ferguson looks confused.

"She slipped behind you," his colleague added. 

And then came the inevitable reprimand: "Let that be a lesson to you, sir, not to be so stupid as to leave your bag with strangers." 

So here it was: the Good Samaritan had become the Stupid Samaritan.

"I was trying to help." 

"Why didn't you come to the authorities?"

I hailed Ferguson. "Tell this policeman! Tell him I came to you with that woman!" But Ferguson was apoplectic at the earlier suggestion of incompetence.