No incident broke the monotony of the road until Clide reached Cologne. There, as he was crossing the platform, a lady passed him; she looked at him, and started, or he fancied she did, and instead of getting into the carriage that they were both evidently making for, she hurried on to the one higher up. He drew his hand across his forehead, and stood for a moment trying to remember where he had seen the face, but his memory failed him. His curiosity was roused, however, and he was in that frame of mind when every insignificant trifle comes to us pregnant with unlooked-for possibilities. He went on to the carriage the lady had entered. There was only another occupant beside herself, an elderly German, with a beery countenance and brick-red whiskers. Clide got in and seated himself opposite the lady, who was at the other end of the compartment, and steadily looking out of the window. He felt sure she had seen him come up to the door, but she did not turn round when he opened it and closed it again with a bang. They had five minutes to wait before the train started. Clide employed them in getting out a book and making himself comfortable for the long ride in prospect. The lady was still absorbed in the landscape. The German made his preparations by taking a clay pipe from his pocket, filling it as full as it would hold with tobacco, and then striking a light. Clide had started bolt upright, and was watching in amazement. The lady was in front of him. Did the brute mean to puff his disgusting weed into her face? He was making a chimney of his hand to let the match light thoroughly. Perhaps Clide’s vehement look of indignation touched him mesmerically, for before applying it to the pipe he looked round at him and said in very intelligible English:
“I hope you don’t object to smoking?”
“I can’t say I much relish tobacco, but I sha’n’t interfere with you if this lady does not object.”
Mein herr asked her if she did. She was compelled to turn round at the question.
“I am sorry to say I do, sir; the smell of tobacco makes me quite sick.”
Hem! She is not a lady, at any rate, thought Clide.
“Oh! I am sorry for that,” said the German; “for you’ll have the trouble of getting out.”
Before Clide could recover sufficient presence of mind to collar the man and pitch him headforemost out of the window, the lady had grasped her bag, rug, and umbrella, and was standing on the platform. The impending ejectment was clearly a most welcome release; nothing but the utmost goodwill could have enabled her to effect such a rapid exit. Clide was so struck by it that he forgot to collar the German, who had begun with equal alacrity to puff away at his pipe, and the train moved on.
The first thing Clide saw on alighting at the next station was his recent vis-à-vis marshalling an array of luggage that struck even his inexperienced eye as somewhat out of keeping with a person who said “sir” and travelled without a servant. What could one lone woman want with such a lot of boxes, and such big ones? She waylaid a porter, who proceeded to pile them on a truck while she stood mounting guard over them.
“Follow that man and see where he is taking that luggage to,” Clide whispered to Stanton, and the latter, leaving his master to look after their respective portmanteaux, hurried on in the direction indicated.