"Any one off on Number Five, Sammy?" Connery questioned carelessly as he approached. Sammy's schemes involved the following of the comings and goings of the great as well as of the "wanted."
Old Sammy shook his head. "What're we holding for?" he whispered. "Ah—for them?"
A couple of station-boys, overloaded with hand-baggage, scurried in from the street; some one shouted for a trunk-truck, and baggagemen ran. A group of people, who evidently had come to the station in covered cars, crowded out to the gate and lined up to pass old Sammy. The gateman straightened importantly and scrutinized each person presenting a ticket. Much of the baggage carried by the boys, and also the trunks rushed by on the trucks, bore foreign hotel and steamship "stickers." Connery observed the label of the Miyaka Hotel, Kioto, leaving visible only the "Bombay" of another below it; others proclaimed "Amoy," "Tonkin," and "Shanghai." This baggage and some of the people, at least, undoubtedly had just landed from the Tamba Maru. Connery inspected with even greater attention the file at the gate and watched old Sammy also as each passed him.
The first of the five in line was a girl—a girl about twenty-two or three, Connery guessed. She was of slightly more than medium height, slender and erect in figure, and with slim, gloved hands. She had the easy, interested air of a person of assured position. She evidently had come to the station in a motor-car which had kept off the sleet, but had let in the wind—a touring-car, possibly, with top up. Her fair cheeks were ruddy and her blue eyes bright; her hair, which was deep brown and abundant, was caught back from her brow, giving her a more outdoor and boyish look. When Connery first saw her, she seemed to be accompanying the man who now was behind her; but she offered her own ticket for perusal at the gate, and as soon as she was through, she hurried on ahead alone.
Whether or not she had come from the Japanese boat, Connery could not tell; her ticket, at least, disclaimed for her any connection with the foreign baggage-labels, for it was merely the ordinary form calling for transportation from Seattle to Chicago. Connery was certain he did not know her. He noticed that old Sammy had held her at the gate as long as possible, as if hoping to recollect who she might be; but now that she was gone, the gateman gave his attention more closely to the first man—a tall, strongly built man, neither heavy nor light, and with a powerful patrician face. His hair and his mustache, which was clipped short and did not conceal his good mouth, were dark; his brows were black and distinct, but not bushy or unpleasantly thick; his eyes were hidden by smoked glasses such as one wears against a glare of snow.
"Chicago?" old Sammy questioned. Connery knew that it was to draw the voice in reply; but the man barely nodded, took back his ticket—which also was the ordinary form of transportation from Seattle to Chicago—and strode on to the train. Connery found his gaze following this man; the conductor did not know him, nor had old Sammy recognized him; but both were trying to place him. He, unquestionably, was a man to be known, though not more so than many who traveled in the transcontinental trains.
A trim, self-assured man of thirty—his open overcoat showed a cutaway underneath—came past next, proffering the plain Seattle-Chicago ticket.
An Englishman, with red-veined cheeks, fumbling, clumsy fingers and curious, interested eyes, immediately followed. To him, plainly, the majority of the baggage on the trucks belonged; he had "booked" the train at Hong Kong and seemed pleasantly surprised that his tourist ticket was instantly accepted. The name upon the strip, "Henry Standish," corresponded with the "H. S., Nottingham," emblazoned on the luggage.
The remaining man, carrying his own grips, which were not initialed, set them down in the gate and felt in his pocket for his transportation.
This fifth person had appeared suddenly after the line of four had formed in front of old Sammy at the gate; he had taken his place with them only after scrutiny of them and of the station all around. Like the Englishman's, his ticket was a strip which originally had held coupons for the Pacific voyage and some indefinite journey in Asia before; unlike the Englishman's,—and his baggage did not bear the pasters of the Nippon Yusen Kaisha,—the ticket was close to the date when it would have expired. It bore upon the line where the purchaser signed, the name "Philip D. Eaton" in plain, vigorous characters without shading or flourish. An American, and too young to have gained distinction in any of the ordinary ways by which men lift themselves above others, he still made a profound impression upon Connery. There was something about him which said, somehow, that these strips of transportation were taking him home after a long and troublesome absence. He combined, in some strange way, exaltation with weariness. He was, plainly, carefully observant of all that went on about him, even these commonplace formalities connected with taking the train; and Connery felt that it was by premeditation that he was the last to pass the gate.