less hour and the penetrating, chilling
dampness of the atmosphere.

In the carriage fifth or sixth from the engine the three
fellow-travellers greeted the arrival in the orthodox way. The tall
American stretched his long limbs and groaned wearily as he got his
belongings together, while the dapper young Englishman thrust his head
out of the window and withdrew it as rapidly.

"Beastly morning!" he announced. "Paris on a wet day is like a woman
with draggled skirts."

"Get rid of our belongings first, Billy, make epigrams after!" The man
called Blake pushed him quietly aside and, stepping to the window,
dropped a leather bag into the hands of a porter.

Of the three, his manner was the most indifferent, his temper the most
unruffled; and of the three, he alone remembered the fourth occupant of
the carriage, for, being relieved of his bag, he turned with his hand
still upon the window, and his eyes sought the youthful figure drawn
with lonely isolation into its corner.

"Do you want a porter?" he asked.

The question was unexpected. The boy started and sat straighter in his
seat. For one moment he seemed to sway between two impulses, then, with
a new determination, he looked straight at his questioner with his clear
eyes.

"No," he said, speaking slowly and with a grave deliberation, "I do not
need a porter. I have no luggage--but this." He rose, as if to prove the
truth of his declaration, and lifted his valise from the rack.

It was a simple movement, simple as the question and answer that had
preceded it, but it held interest for Blake. He could not have analyzed
the impression, but something in the boy's air touched him, something in
the young figure so plainly clad, so aloof, stood out with sharp appeal
in the grayness and unreality of the dawn. A feeling that was neither
curiosity nor pity, and yet savored of both, urged him to further
speech. As his two companions, anxious to be free of the train, passed
out into the corridor, he glanced once more at the slight figure, at the
high Russian boots, the long overcoat, the fur cap drawn down over the
dark hair.

"Look here! you aren't alone in Paris?" he asked in the easy, impersonal
way that spoke his nationality. "You have people--friends to meet you?"

For an instant the look that had possessed the boy's face during the
journey--the look of suspicion akin to fear--leaped up, but on the
moment it was conquered. The well-poised head was thrown back, and ag