He turned on me at once, and the ticket-nippers fell out of his twitching fingers and clattered on the floor unheeded.
"Who told you that name?" he demanded, fiercely.
"Nellie Vincent," said I, and watched him narrowly, "used to speak pretty frequently about a certain Ian Farquhar—that is to say, before she became Mrs. Conyers, of course—and I thought——"
"Who are you?" he interrupted, with a menacing gesture which was all English, "and what do you know about Nellie Vincent?"
"'WHO TOLD YOU THAT NAME?' HE DEMANDED, FIERCELY."
"As much as a not very distant relative may know," I answered, suavely. "Can I take her any message from Captain Farquhar?"
He turned sharply round, and I wondered whether he was going to embrace me or assault me. As a matter of fact, he did neither.
"Go to the devil," he snarled savagely in my face, and then, opening the door with a jerk, swung himself out on to the foot-board.
Now, we were on an incline, and going, for a Portuguese local train, really fast. Under ordinary circumstances, therefore, he would have waited till we slowed down at the station before venturing to pass on to the next carriage; but a badly surprised man forgets that he's got a neck to be broken.