Hindwood turned to her. There was a startled expression in his eyes. He was quite certain she had known it. He was seeing the real Santa for the first time. She was a Charlotte Corday, who had dipped her hands in blood that she might prevent a more colossal crime.
“I begin to see,” he muttered.
The Captain took the words as addressed to himself. “I'm glad you do. It must be obvious to you now that where you're going is no place for a woman. If you'll accept my advice, you'll turn back at the next stopping-place.”
“Impossible.” Hindwood recalled himself to the part he was playing. “You're a soldier; you'd be ashamed to run away at the first hint of danger. In a sense I also am a soldier, a soldier of business. I, too, have my marching orders and my duty.”
“Then if you won't turn back yourself, send Mrs. Hindwood back.” The man's voice shook. “You're taking her to almost certain death. She's too beautiful—I beg it of you.”
To his amazement Hindwood found himself liking the stranger. “My wife's beauty has no bearing on the problem. We're exceedingly grateful to you, Captain Lajos; but to act on your warning—it's out of the question.”
The Captain shot him a dark look, then let his gaze rest on Santa. When she kept her eyes averted, he pretended to lose interest in the subject. The train was slowing down. He cleared the pane with his glove.
“It's the frontier.”
Hindwood rose and hurriedly commenced to gather together his belongings. Sitting perfectly still with an air of quiet criticism, the Captain watched him. When the last bag had been strapped and made ready for removal, “Why are you doing that?” he inquired.
“The German Customs. I suppose we'll have to get out and go through the old jog-trot of being inspected.”