"Here's a card," he said to the guard, "on the seat where he was."
The man took it and spelt the name out.
"Mr. Douglas Guest," he said. "Well, we shall know who he was, at any rate. It's lucky you found it, sir. Now we'll get on, if you please."
A tarpaulin-covered burden was carefully deposited in an empty carriage, and the little troop of people melted away. She looked up from her book as he entered.
"Well?"
"It was an accident, or a suicide," he said, gravely. "A man threw himself from an empty carriage in front and was run over. It was a horrible affair."
"Do they know who he was?" she asked.
"There was a card found near him," he answered. "Mr. Douglas Guest.
That was his name."
Was it his fancy, or did she look at him for a moment more intently during the momentary silence which followed his speech? It must have been his fancy. Yet her next words puzzled him.
"You have not told me yet" she said, "your own name. I should like to know it."