"Of course there must be; only I can't give it. Perhaps the porter could tell us. Shall I call him?"
Mr. Grainger nodded his permission. The colored man with the flashing teeth came up on the broad grin, showing them.
"Yep," he replied, in answer to the question: "they was two ladies in them seats all the way f'um Ne' Yawk."
"Two ladies?" Mr. Grainger cried, incredulously.
"Yes, gen'lemen. Two different ladies. The young one she got in at the Grand Central—fust one in the cyar—and the ole one at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street."
"Do you mean to say it was an old lady who got in there?"
"Yep, gen'lemen; ole and cranky. I 'ain't handled 'em no crankier not since I've bin on this beat. Sick, too. They done get off at Providence, though they was booked right through to Boston, because the ole lady she couldn't go no farther."
Mr. Grainger was not a sleuth-hound, but he did what he could in the way of verification.
"Did the young lady wear—wear a veil?"
The porter scratched his head.