The only other occupant of the compartment besides myself was a woman. I had sought an empty carriage, but failing to find one, was compelled to accept her as travelling companion. She was youngish, perhaps thirty-five, and neatly dressed, but her face, as far as I could distinguish it through her spotted veil, was that of a woman melancholy and bowed down by trouble. In her dark hair were premature threads of silver, and her deep-sunken eyes, peering forth strangely at me, were the eyes of a woman rendered desperate.
I did not like the look of her. In travelling one is quick to entertain an instinctive dislike to one’s companion, and it was so in my case. I found myself regretting that I had not entered a smoking-carriage. But I soon became absorbed in my papers, and forgot her presence.
It was only her voice, a curiously high-pitched one, that made me start.
She inquired if I minded her closing the window because of the draught, and I at once closed it, responding rather frigidly, I believe.
But she was in no humour to allow the conversation to drop and commenced to chat with a familiarity that surprised me.
She noticed how puzzled I became, and at length remarked with a laugh—
“You apparently don’t recognise me, Mr Heaton.”
“No, madam,” I answered, taken aback. “You have certainly the advantage of me.”
This recognition was startling, for was I not flying to London to escape my friends? This woman, whoever she was, would without doubt recount her meeting with me.
“It is really very droll,” she laughed. “I felt sure from the first, when you entered the compartment, that you didn’t know me.”