“No,” she answered; “I was on that seat at the far end when I first came in this coach.”
He got up and, walking down the aisle, made a thorough search of the place that she indicated, but his efforts were fruitless. It was a little brown Morocco-leather bag, she informed him, with her name, “Elizabeth Wilson,” on it, under a celluloid panel.
“Who was sitting by you?” he asked. “D’you think you could recognize the person again?”
She shook her head despondently. “Oh, I don’t remember,” she wailed. “My girlie was crying, and in trying to quiet her I guess I didn’t notice anybody in particular.”
“How much money was in your bag?” he asked.
“Twenty-five dollars,” she said brokenly. “I am going to Vancouver to look for a position, and it’s all I have in the world. Oh, what shall we do, my baby and I?”
Ellis eyed the forlorn face a moment or two in silent commiseration; then, seeking out the conductor, whom he knew well, explained the situation.
“Yes, I mind ’em getting on at Calgary,” said that official; “and she had a ticket through to Vancouver, all right.”
“Say, Bob,” the Sergeant persuaded, “that bag’s been pinched off her without a doubt; but as she’s no suspicion of anybody I can’t very well search every one on the bloomin’ train, and I’m getting off in a minute at Sabbano—be a good fellow and pass her on to Vancouver.... She’s dead up against it.”
The kind-hearted conductor agreed, and with an easier mind Ellis went back to the woman and told her.