Evelyn, her eyes beaming, reached up and took it down. "Open it," she said to the ticket-collector, sweetly.
That functionary, delving deep, produced a tweed suit — clearly Charters's — a pair of pyjamas, a straight-bladed razor, a shaving-brush, and a stick of shaving-soap; and by this time the ticket-collector was turning a very sour eye on a furious clergyman. Then he broke his oracular silence at last.
"Ye'll no' maintain," be said, "that this belongs to the young lady, will ye? For mysel', I'll no judge ye; but, if ye maun hae my opeenion, sin, ye're as daft as auld Jamie."
"Crazy as a bed-bug, agreed Stone. "Or drunk."
"Ay," agreed the other. He took up the coat, and examined the tailor's label with a sinister squint. "You, sir you'll no' mind givin' your name, now?"
"Martin Charters," I said, and Stone shut his eyes.
The ticket-collector examined the label, nodded in satisfaction, and grunted. Then he looked at the black bag on the rack. "Ay. But that —?"
Evelyn pointed dramatically at my antagonist, and entered flushed into the battle. "It's his," she declared. "I saw him bring it in. But I don't think he's drunk, really. I think it's all a part of a nasty, clever plot to throw suspicion on the Rev. Mr. Charters while he gets away: that's what I think! Why should he talk about somebody being a criminal, unless he's one himself? And as for casting those nasty aspersions on my virtue… he says I went out of the compartment. Well, I did! Do you know why?"
"Eh?"
"He made indecent proposals to me," said Evelyn, and her eyes filled with tears.