“Is this compartment engaged?” she asked in a low voice that was almost a whisper.
“No, madam.” Washington rose, hat in hand.
“Would you mind?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Why, surely! Sit down, ma’am,” said the gallant American. “Would you like the corner seat by the window?”
She shook her head, and sat down near the door, turning her face from him.
“Do you mind my smoking?” asked Washington, after a while.
“Please smoke,” she said, and again turned her face away.
“English,” thought Mr. Washington in disgust, and hunched himself for an hour and a half of unrelieved silence.
A whistle blew, the train moved slowly from the platform, and Elijah Washington’s adventurous journey had begun.
They were passing through Croydon when the girl rose, and, leaning out, closed the little glass-panelled door.
“You should let me do that,” said Elijah reproachfully, and she murmured something about not wishing to trouble him, and he relapsed into his seat.
One or two of the men who passed looked in, and evidently this annoyed her, for she reached and pulled down the spring blind which partially hid her from outside observation, and after the ticket collector had been and had punched the slips, she lowered the second of the three blinds.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
“Sure not, ma’am,” said Elijah, without any great heartiness. He had no desire to travel alone with a lady in a carriage so discreetly curtained. He had heard of cases … and by nature he was an extremely cautious man.
The speed of the train increased; the wandering passengers had settled down. The second of the ticket inspections came as they were rushing through Redhill, and Mr. Washington thought uncomfortably that there was a significant look in the inspector’s face as he glanced first at the drawn blinds, then from the lady to himself.
She affected a perfume of a peculiarly pleasing kind. The carriage was filled with this subtle fragrance. Mr. Washington smelt it above the scent of his cigar. Her face was still averted; he wondered if she had gone to sleep, and, growing weary of his search for humour, he put down the paper, folded his hands and closed his eyes, and found himself gently drifting to that medley of the real and unreal which is the overture of dreams.
The lady moved; he looked at her out of the corner of his half-closed eyes. She had moved round so as to half face him. Her veil was still down, her white gloves were reflectively clasped on her knees. He shut his eyes again, until another movement brought him awake. She was feeling in her bag.
Mr. Washington was awake now—as wide awake as he had ever been in his life. In stretching out her hand, the lady had pulled short her sleeve, and there was a gap of flesh between the glove and the wrist of her blouse, and on her wrist was hair!
He shifted his position slightly, grunted as in his sleep, and dropped his hand to his pocket, and all the time those cold eyes were watching him through the veil.
Lifting the bottom of the veil, she put the ebony holder between her teeth and searched the bag for a match. Then she turned appealingly to him as though she had sensed his wakefulness. As she rose, Washington rose too, and suddenly he sprang at her and flung her back against the door. For a moment the veiled lady was taken by surprise, and then there was a flash of steel.
From nowhere a knife had come into her hand and Washington gripped the wrist and levered it over, pushing the palm of his hand under the chin. Even through the veil he could feel the bristles, and knew now, if he had not known before, that he had to deal with a man. A live, active man, rendered doubly strong by the knowledge of his danger. Gurther butted forward with his head, but Washington saw the attack coming, shortened his arm and jabbed full at the face behind the veil. The blow stopped the man, only for an instant, and again he came on, and this time the point of the knife caught the American’s shoulder, and ripped the coat to the elbow. It needed this to bring forth Elijah Washington’s mental and physical reserves. With a roar he gripped the throat of his assailant and threw him with such violence against the door that it gave, and the “widow in mourning” crashed against the panel of the outer corridor. Before he could reach the attacker, Gurther had turned and sped along the corridor to the door of the coach. In a second he had flung it open and had dropped to the footboard. The train was slowing to take Horsham Junction, and the cat eyes waited until he saw a good fall, and let go. Staring back into the darkness, Washington saw nothing, and then the train inspector came along.
“It was a man in woman’s clothes,” he said, a little breathlessly, and they went back to search the compartment, but Mr. Gurther had taken bag and everything with him, and the only souvenir of his presence was the heel of a shoe that had been torn off in the struggle.
XV
Gurther Returns
The train was going at thirty miles an hour when Gurther dropped on to a ridge of sand by the side of the track, and in the next second he was sliding forward on his face. Fortunately for him the veil, though torn, kept his eyes free. Stumbling to his feet, he looked round. The level-crossing gates should be somewhere here. He had intended jumping the train at this point, and Oberzohn had made arrangements accordingly. A signalman, perched high above the track, saw the figure and challenged.
“I’ve lost my way,” said
