At last a faint streak of golden smoke rewarded his patience. "Siena—Siena," a hoarse voice shouted. He made for the nearest door labelled First Class and clambered in, finding a single occupant.
An old man with a white imperial, the soft black felt beloved of Italy, a thick coat with a wolf-skin collar and a lawyer's portfolio across his knees.
He raised the aforementioned hat courteously.
"Fa freddo," he said in a musical voice.
McTaggart lifted his cap, with pleased surprise, his loneliness fading before the stranger's smile.
"Do you speak French?" He asked in that language. "I'm afraid my Italian's somewhat scanty."
"Si, si, Monsieur." Again he raised his hat.
Again McTaggart clutched at his cap.
"I hope it isn't necessary with every word!" he thought with an Englishman's distaste for ceremony.
"A cold night for travelling," the stranger suggested. "Monsieur has come far?" His keen black eyes shone like bright coal in their wrinkled sockets.