“Let me go! Let me go!” screamed the girl.
The train had stopped opposite a train going in the other direction. The door of the compartment was opened suddenly, and Beenham found himself picked up and flung into the far corner. Over him towered an immense form clad in parson’s clothes—the very type of vengeful muscular Christianity.
In the corner the girl had subsided into hysterical sobs. The parson questioned her.
“Do you know this man?”
“No . . . no, sir.”
“Never seen him before?”
“Never, sir. He—he set on me.”
“Do you prefer a charge against him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Beenham could hardly hear what they said, but he was boiling with indignation.