“You made the common mistake,” a quiet voice at his elbow remarked, “of many of the world’s greatest diplomatists. You underrated your adversaries.”
Mr. Sabin distinctly started, and clutching at his rug, leaned back in his corner. A young man in a tweed travelling suit was standing by the opposite window. Behind him Mr. Sabin noticed for the first time a narrow mahogany door. Mr. Sabin drew a short breath, and was himself again. Underneath the rug his fingers stole into his overcoat pocket and clasped something cold and firm.
“One at least,” he said grimly, “I perceive that I have held too lightly. Will you pardon a novice at necromancy if he asks you how you found your way here?”
Felix smiled.
“A little forethought,” he remarked, “a little luck and a sovereign tip to an accommodating inspector. The carriage in which you are travelling is, as you will doubtless perceive before you reach your journey’s end, a species of saloon. This little door”—touching the one through which he had issued—“leads on to a lavatory, and on the other side is a non-smoking carriage. I found that you had engaged a carriage on this train, by posing as your servant. I selected this one as being particularly suited to an old gentleman of nervous disposition, and arranged also that the non-smoking portion should be reserved for me.”
Mr. Sabin nodded. “And how,” he asked, “did you know that I meant to go to America?”
Felix shrugged his shoulders and took a seat.
“Well,” he said, “I concluded that you would be looking for a change of air somewhere, and I really could not see what part of the world you had left open to yourself. America is the only country strong enough to keep you! Besides, I reckoned a little upon that curiosity with regard to undeveloped countries which I have observed to be one of your traits. So far as I am aware, you have never resided long in America.”
“Neither have I even visited Kamtchatka or Greenland,” Mr. Sabin remarked.