In the compartment reserved for her and the wardress—it was a corridor carriage, and T. B. and his man occupied the next compartment—she found a dainty breakfast waiting for her, and a supply of literature. She slept the greater part of the journey and woke at the jolting of a shunting engine being attached to the carriage.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"We're there," was the cryptic reply of the woman attendant.
She was soon to discover, for, when the carriage finally came to a standstill and the door was opened, she stepped down onto a wind-swept quay. Ahead of her the great white hull of a steamer rose, and before she could realise the situation she had been hurried up the sloping gangway onto the deck.
Evidently T. B.'s night had been profitably spent, for he was expected. The purser met him.
"We got your telegrams," he said. "Is this the lady?"
T. B. nodded.
The purser led the way down the spacious companion.
"I have prepared 'C' suite," he said, and ushered the party into a beautifully appointed cabin.
She noticed that a steel grating had been newly fixed to the porthole, but that was the only indication of her captivity.