Again she seemed to have lapsed into a dream. As she answered, her lips quivered and each word came out with an effort that was noticeable.
“Because ... why yes ... I had some errands to do there.... I went to Beaulieu.... In fact ... see for yourself ...!”
She dropped the reins and began looking through the little bag that was hanging from her wrist.
“See ... here is my ticket ...!” she added triumphantly.
I was quite puzzled, less at the fact of her visit to Beaulieu than at her whole manner. And my astonishment was not relieved when I observed that the ticket had been punched but once.
“You got on the train—that is evident! But how do you happen to have the ticket, anyway? How did you get through the gate without giving it up?”
Her eyes turned toward me vacantly, wide open, almost bulging:
“Why, I.... Yes.... How do I know? Of course not! I didn’t give it up. I suppose the gateman failed to ask me for it....”
And her brow knit into a slight wrinkle that seemed to mark a strange and intense mental concentration. A second later she seemed to give up, and she confessed:
“Listen, darling ... I think I had better tell you.... It’s all so absurd.... I’m really quite ashamed. But I think you ought to know. Well ... see here ... I simply don’t know why I went to Beaulieu Tuesday. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to call me there ... at least, nothing that I can remember right now.... Nor can I remember having done anything in particular when I got there.... I left Tuesday morning and I came back Wednesday night.... And I was all tired out when I reached home.... There you have the whole story....”