Then he took his newspaper and resumed his reading.
The porter left the compartment.
The sleeper slept on, and on, and on, through every stoppage and every start of the train, until it reached Philadelphia and ran into the lighted station.
She was so still that Hanson grew uneasy again, feeling that he was playing a dangerous game with this child, that might affect his life as well as her own. He felt her pulse, but found it perfectly normal. He lifted and turned her over, with her face away from the light. She drew a deep sigh of relief, as if refreshed by the change of position, and then sank into still deeper slumber.
Hanson left the train and went into the restaurant, where he made a very satisfactory, if rather late, dinner.
He took his seat in his compartment just as the train was about to start.
The child seemed sleeping well.
He lighted another cigar and smoked it out. Then he composed himself for a doze, while the train sped on from Philadelphia to New York.
It was half-past ten o’clock when the train ran into the depot at Jersey City.
Hanson lifted the sleeping child in his arms, arranged her dress, put on her hat, and laid her head over his shoulders, saying to himself: