"I have no baggage," I replied. "Only see that I get something to eat—and buy me a novel. Italian, French—anything will do. And also some newspapers—Stampa, Corriere, and Secolo."
"Si, signorina." And the door was closed.
Five minutes later, just as the train was gliding out of Turin, the man returned with a couple of new novels and half a dozen four-paged, badly-printed Italian newspapers, by means of which I managed to wile away the tedious hours as we sped on through Susa and the beautiful Alpine valleys.
From time to time my companion looked in to see how I was, offering to do anything for me that she could; then she returned to old Keppel, who was sitting on one of the little flap-seats in the corridor, smoking.
"The woman in with me is rather young—and quite charming," I heard her say to him. "She's been taken queer this morning. I expect the heat has upset her, poor thing! The berths here are very hot and close."
"Horribly! I was nearly asphyxiated," he answered.
Then, about half an hour later, I recognised his voice again. He was evidently standing with his companion close to the door of my compartment.
"We shall be in Paris about half-past eight to-morrow morning, it seems," he said.
"And the Vispera will be awaiting you at Naples?" she laughed.
"Davis is quite used to my erratic movements," he answered. "A reputation for eccentricity is very useful sometimes."