"Voici, Monsieur."
The young man peeped past him into the narrow coupé. The beds were already arranged for the night and on the lower berth, impassive, there sat a very fat priest, absorbed in his breviary. The windows were shut, the heat turned on full.
McTaggart drew back with a gesture of disgust.
"This won't do." Unconsciously his voice took on that arrogant note which the travelling Englishman employs for the benefit of foreign servants.
"What name did you say, Monsieur?" The shrewd French face was studying him, gauging the value of his tip.
A sudden idea flashed into McTaggart's brain. He would test here and now the value of his title.
"I'm the Marquis Maramonte," he answered, steadily watching the black eyes fixed on his.
"Pardon, Monsieur?" The man looked puzzled. Then a ray of light illumined his face.
"It is ... the English milord? who inherits ... Mon Dieu! what a sad affair! ..." he became voluble—"the papers were full of it ... and Monsieur le feu Marquis has often travelled by this train. He loved well Paris. If Monsieur le Marquis had but given his name..." He backed ceremoniously and threw open the door of an empty compartment. "I will see that Monsieur is not disturbed. He has only to ring. I am here all night. And at Modane I will warn the Customs. Monsieur would like an extra 'couverture'?"
McTaggart was smiling in his sleeve.