A handsome and distinguished-looking foreigner began taking immediate notice of her. He was so quick to pick her out in the throng that it seemed he must have been watching for her. Whoever and whatever he was, he was manifestly a man of breeding—the kind of man who might have been her companion in the old, wild days of her triumphant folly. He was about thirty-five, tall, dark, finely-built, and of military bearing. He had a closely-trimmed mustache, bold, black eyes, and a Latin type of countenance. That was all that Hindwood permitted himself to observe; changing his position promptly, he shut Santa out from the stranger's line of vision. But the man was not to be balked. With an air of complete unconcern, he fell into line immediately behind them, treading closely on their heels as they passed up the gangplank. On the way to the Customs he managed to get ahead, so that he could glance back several times at Santa.
After their baggage had been inspected it was necessary for them to file through a stuffy room where passports were examined. It was here that Hindwood was fully prepared to be caught. The officials at Dover had probably cabled a warning; the inquisitive stranger might prove to be their emissary. Quite the contrary occurred. The French official, catching sight of the magic words Diplomatic and Special, scrutinized no further and returned the papers with a courteous apology. Making the most of his luck, Hindwood hurried Santa out onto the platform, down the long train labeled Stuttgart, Warsaw, etc., and into the wagons-lits which went express to Vienna.
Before leaving London he had reserved two separate compartments in the name of “Philip Hindwood and party.” Now that he claimed them, he found to his annoyance that they were adjoining and connected by a private door. It was an indiscretion that he had not intended. Having seen Santa safely settled, he set off to superintend the placing on board of their bags.
He was gone perhaps five minutes. As he reentered the corridor of his section, the first sight that met his eyes was the handsome stranger engaged in earnest talk with the wagon-lits conductor. Some money passed. Next thing the stranger's belongings were being transferred from lower down the train to the compartment on the further side from Santa's. Hindwood entered his own compartment, shaded the windows that looked out on the corridor and made fast his door.
What was the game? Was this a fresh example of Santa's irresistible charm? And if it was, was he to be subjected to this kind of impertinence throughout the entire journey? Or was the man a secret service agent in the employ of some foreign Government, who, believing he had recognized her, was keeping her in sight till she should have crossed the frontier into his own country, where he would have power to arrest her?
In his anger he tried to blame Santa; she must have unconsciously exercised her talent for attraction. Strangers didn't follow women unless——
But he had to own himself unjust. She was dressed with the utmost plainness, in a tailored costume, minus furs or any lavishness. There was nothing to complain of in her deportment. It was as modest as could have been expected had she really been “Edith Jones, aged thirty, American-born citizen, confidential secretary.” The fault lay in something beyond her control—her beauty. It refused to be subdued. It shone out the more conspicuously in the absence of adornment. It constituted itself an unforeseen embarrassment, if not a menace. The further he traveled into continental countries, the less he would be believed when he stated that she was Miss Jones and no more than his secretary. Already more people than the obtrusive stranger had stared at her. She had only to appear to make herself the focus of attention. Sooner or later, to-day, to-morrow, a month hence, some one would catch sight of her who had known her in the past. She had been feted in too many cities, her portrait had been too widely published, for her features not to be remembered. These distressing reflections were cut short by the shrill tootings of tin horns which announce the departure of a train in France. When Calais had been left behind and they were rushing past stripped orchards and harvested fields, he unlatched the dividing door. She was sitting lost in thought, staring out of the window with a wistful expression.
“Come into my compartment. I'd like to talk.”
The jerk with which she turned betrayed the strain under which she was laboring. He watched the undulating grace with which she rose, the calculated delicacy of her every movement. Though she had dressed in rags, nothing could have disguised her.
When he had closed the door, she remained standing.