There were two empty compartments on this car—4 and 5. Mathison had No. 1. No. 2 was occupied by a man with straw-colored hair and a ruddy complexion and a woman with a charming mole at one corner of her mouth. In No. 3 were two men, playing canfield. In No. 6 there were two women.
Both women had entered the car heavily veiled—the woman in 6 and the woman in 2. Neither removed the veil until the conductor passed. From San Francisco to Omaha, all on the same car; and they would be on the same car from Omaha to Chicago. Mathison nor the woman in 2 had stepped outside their compartments until this transfer from one car to the other. But the woman in 6 walked the corridor at all hours of the day and night, her face hidden behind a thick gray veil. Her maid, however, brought all the meals to the compartment.
The blond man stood up and put a cigar between his teeth.
"Well, once more luck is with us. And yet I am vaguely puzzled."
"Over what?" snapped the woman with the mole, irritably.
"It is almost too easy"—scowling.
"The stupid Yankee pigs!"
"Not this one, Berta. We haven't got him clear in the open yet."
"Ah! Then you are beginning to doubt that superior efficiency of yours?... I'm tired. To keep me cooped up like this!"