Talking now became more possible. Haeberlein leaned far back in the corner, and spoke in low tones.
“Thou has been my salvation, Erica,” he said, pressing her hand. “That fellow would never have let me pass in the Italian costume. Thou wert right as usual, it was theatrical how do you call stagey, is it not?
“I am a little troubled about your mouth,” said Erica, smiling, “the mustache doesn't disguise it, and it looks so good-tempered and like itself. Can't you feel severe just for half an hour?”
Haeberlein smiled his irresistibly sweet smile, and tried to comply with her wishes, but not very successfully.
“I think,” said Erica, presently, “it will be the best way, if you don't mind, for you just to stroll through the booking office while I take your ticket. I can meet you by the book stall and I will still talk for us both in case you betray your accent.”
“HERZBLATTCHEN!” exclaimed Haeberlein, “how shall I ever repay thee! Thou art a real canny little Scot! I only wish I had half thy caution and forethought!”
“Don't look like that!” said Erica, laughing, as the benignant expression once more came over his lips. “You really must try to turn down the corners! Your character is a silent, morose misanthrope. I am the chatter box, pure and simple.”
They were both laughing when they drew near to the station, but a sense of the risk sobered Haeberlein, and Erica carried out her programme to perfection. It was rather a shock to her, indeed, to find a detective keenly inspecting all who went to the ticket office. He stood so close to the pigeon hole that Erica doubted whether Herr Haeberlein's eyebrows, improved though they were, could possibly have escaped detection. It required all her self command to prevent her color from rising and her fingers from trembling as she received the ticket and change under that steady scrutiny. Then she passed out on to the platform and found that Herr Haeberlein had been wise enough to buy the paper which least sympathized with his views, and in a few minutes he was safely disposed in the middle of a well-filled carriage.
Erica took out her watch. There were still three minutes before the train started, three long, interminable minutes! She looked down the platform, and her heart died within her; for, steadily advancing toward them, she saw two men making careful search in every carriage.
Herr Haeberlein was sitting with his back to the engine. Between him and the door sat a lady with a copy of the “Graphic” on her knee. If she could only have been persuaded to read it, it might have made an effectual screen. She tried to will her to take it up, but without success. And still the detectives moved steadily forward with their keen scrutiny.