The Flying Corpse
This was getting tolerably bad. Everywhere I turned that night, there seemed to be clink at the end of it. The ticket-collector, still silent, turned on me his sad and gloomy expression, giving a curious grunt with a rising inflection.
"No, sir," I said. "I most certainly will not open that bag.’
"You will not open the bag," stated the other formally, and folded his arms again. "And why won't you open the bag, sir, may I ask? Why won't you open the bag?"
"Because it's not mine."
This took him under the ear, but it confirmed his suspicions. He whirred in his throat, looked grimly at the ticket-collector, and regarded me with a terrible smile. He wasn't a bad old boy, and it must have made him furious to see such goings-on in canonicals, so there was good excuse for his accusation.
"You deny," he said, "you deny that you brought a bag in here?"
"No, I don't. But it wasn't that one. My bag is there."
Now it was time to bless Charters's thoroughness in sending me some wearing apparel. I pointed to the valise Evelyn had brought.
"I might have anticipated this, indeed," declared my friend, wagging his head. "Is there any use of his pretending further? I myself can give testimony that the bag he indicates was brought into this compartment by that young lady herself."