Driven to a corner by her question, I made a stammering attempt to evade.
“It could not have been your son, madam,” I said, with evident confusion; “my friend’s name was Lionel.”
Ramie’s full name was Lionel Raymond, but he always signed his name simply as Raymond.
Her piercing gaze read my flimsy deception in a moment, and a quick pallor ran over her face, as if her heart had ceased beating for a while.
“My son’s name was also Lionel. Surely, sir, you would not trifle with my feelings? I must go into the front car and satisfy myself,” she said, rising from her seat.
“Madam,” I said, putting out my hand to detain her, “I implore you to be seated. The train will reach Wilmington in a few moments, and you can then see for yourself. Heaven forbid that it should be your son!”
At this moment the conductor approached, gathering up the tickets for the last station. She called him to her and said, with an air of command it was impossible to resist:
“I wish to go to the front car and look at the corpse there. You will go with me, sir?”
“I should advise you, ma’am, to sit still,” said the conductor, snipping a hole in the last ticket he had taken; “it’s not a pleasant sight for a lady, and we’ll soon get to Wilmington any how.”
“I only wished your aid in crossing the platforms, but I will go alone,” she said firmly, passing us both and walking rapidly up the aisle.