Dalroy himself, nearly as tall, was lean and lithe, hard as nails, yet intellectual, a cavalry officer who had passed through the Oxford mint.
By this time four other occupants of the compartment were in evidence, and a ticket-examiner came along. Dalroy produced a number of vouchers. The girl, who obviously spoke German, leaned out, purse in hand, and was about to explain that the crush in the booking-hall had prevented her from obtaining a ticket.
But Dalroy intervened. “I have your ticket,” he said, announcing a singular fact in the most casual manner he could command.
“Thank you,” she said instantly, trying to conceal her own surprise. But her eyes met Von Halwig’s bold stare, and read therein not only a ready appraisement of her good looks but a perplexed half-recognition.
The railwayman raised a question. Contrary to the general custom, the vouchers bore names, which he compared with a list.
“These tickets are for Herren Fane and Dalroy, and I find a lady here,” he said suspiciously.
“Fräulein Evelyn Fane, my cousin,” explained Dalroy. “A mistake of the issuing office.”
“But——”
“Ach, was!” broke in Von Halwig impatiently. “You hear. Some fool has blundered. It is sufficient.”
At any rate, his word sufficed. Dalroy entered the carriage, and the door was closed and locked.