He stood up abruptly as he realized that he was alone in the compartment. Where was Sandane? Next he realized that he was standing, that he was Sandane, or at least in Sandane's body. He took two steps to the mirror and stared at it. Cutaway, striped pants, face the spitting image of Wyatt Earp. It was the old man in the wheelchair who had left the compartment.
When he disembarked at San Francisco, he scanned the crowd for the wheelchair and soon spotted it. Edna had spotted it first—she was pushing it herself while a redcap followed, carrying the blanket and the old battered valise that the occupant of the chair had insisted on taking into his own coach. George tipped his derby to Edna.
"Mrs. Bowers, I presume? Your father was telling me many nice things about you on the train."
Edna laughed. "So you're the gentleman he was with! I guessed from his breath he'd had company!"
"Now, Edna," a cracked old voice complained, "ain't no harm in buying a few drinks for an old man."
George looked at the man in the chair in amazement. Was that the way he had sounded? Somehow, through the hearing aid, his own voice had seemed louder, less faltering.
"Only too happy to do it, sir," George said. "The pleasure was all mine." He wanted to add that Sandane was acting his part superbly, but didn't know just how to say it before Edna.
"We could give you a lift to your hotel," Edna suggested.
"Thank you, madam, but I don't believe I shall check into a hotel as yet. I shall leave my bags here until later in the evening." George was surprised how quickly he had assumed the manner of speaking that went with his clothes.