ns in
speechless and measureless content. But Tommy had hardly done so before
he reappeared and looked in. "I say," he suggested, "if I was you, I'd
get under the seat before you gets to Dufferton, otherways your
guv'nor'll be spottin' you. I'll lock you in."

"I'll get under now; some one might see me here," said Paul; and, too
anxious for safety to thank his preserver, he crawled under the low,
blue-cushioned seat, which left just room enough for him to lie there in
a very cramped and uncomfortable position. Still he need not stay there
after the train had once started, except for five minutes or so at
Dufferton.

Unfortunately he had not been long under the seat before he heard two
loud imperious voices just outside the carriage door.

"Porter! guard! Hi, somebody! open this door, will you; it's locked."

"This way, sir," he heard Tommy's voice say outside. "Plenty of room
higher up."

"I don't want to go higher up. I'll go here. Just open it at once, I
tell you."

The door was opened reluctantly, and two middle-aged men came in.
"Always take the middle carriage of a train," said the first. "Safest in
any accident, y'know. Never heard of a middle carriage of a train
getting smashed up, to speak of."

The other sat heavily down just over Paul, with a comfortable grunt, and
the train started, Paul feeling naturally annoyed by this intrusion, as
it compelled him to remain in seclusion for the whole of the journey.
"Still," he thought, "it is lucky that I had time to get under here
before they came in; it would have seemed odd if I had done it
afterwards." And he resigned himself to listen to the conversation which
followed.

"What was it we were talking about just now?" began the first. "Let me
see. Ah! I remember. Yes; it was a very painful thing--very, indeed, I
assure you."

There is a certain peculiar and uncomfortable suspicion that attacks
most of us at times, which cannot fairly be set down wholly to
self-consciousness or an exaggerated idea of our own importance. I mean
the suspicion that a partly-heard conversation must have ourselves for
its subject. More often than not, of course, it proves utterly
unfounded, but once in a way, like most presentiments, it finds itself
unpleasantly fulfilled.

Mr. Bultitude, though he failed to recognise either of the voices, was
somehow persuaded that the conversation had something to do with
himself, and listened with eager attention.

"Yes," the speaker cont