“How much—how much is there to pay?” It was mere desperation. There were only a few—a very few shillings in her purse. All her available capital had been put into the green ulster and the new serge suit she was wearing and a black felt hat with a neat green ribbon. But to be torn out of that haven of refuge, to be flung again, bag and baggage, into the maelstrom of Platform Three—the thought was paralyzing.
The Inspector condescended to look again at the third-class ticket. “Clavering St. Mary’s. There’ll be twenty-one and six-pence excess.”
Miss Gray Eyes wilted visibly.
“I can’t stand here all day,” announced the Inspector. “This train was due out a quarter of an hour ago.”
“But—” faltered the unlucky passenger.
“You’ll have to come out and find room lower down.”
At this point a slow, cool, rather cautious voice said “Inspector.”
“Madam?” It was a decidedly imperative “madam.”
“If there is no room in the third-class compartments this lady is allowed a seat here, isn’t she?”
“There is room—if she’ll take the trouble to look for it.”