long forenoon packing, because when he assembled and counted
things his mind slid off to the hours that remained of the day before
his night, and he found himself counting minutes aloud. At such times
the injustice of his fate would drive him to revolts which no servant
should witness, but on this evening Dr. Gilbert's tonic held him fairly
calm while he put up his patent razors.

Waterloo Station shook him into real life. The change for his ticket
needed concentration, if only to prevent shillings and pence turning
into minutes at the booking-office; and he spoke quickly to a porter
about the disposition of his bag. The old 10.8 from Waterloo to the West
was an all-night caravan that halted, in the interests of the milk
traffic, at almost every station.

Dr. Gilbert stood by the door of the one composite corridor-coach; an
older and stouter man behind him. 'So glad you're here!' he cried. 'Let
me get your ticket.'

'Certainly not,' Conroy answered. 'I got it myself--long ago. My bag's
in too,' he added proudly.

'I beg your pardon. Miss Henschil's here. I'll introduce you.'

'But--but,' he stammered--'think of the state I'm in. If anything
happens I shall collapse.'

'Not you. You'd rise to the occasion like a bird. And as for the
self-control you were talking of the other day'--Gilbert swung him
round--'look!'

A young man in an ulster over a silk-faced frock-coat stood by the
carriage window, weeping shamelessly.

'Oh, but that's only drink,' Conroy said. 'I haven't had one of my--my
things since lunch.'

'Excellent!' said Gilbert. 'I knew I could depend on you. Come along.
Wait for a minute, Chartres.'

A tall woman, veiled, sat by the far window. She bowed her head as the
doctor murmured Conroy knew not what. Then he disappeared and the
inspector came for tickets.

'My maid--next compartment,' she said slowly.

Conroy showed his ticket, but in returning it to the sleeve-pocket of
his ulster the little silver Najdolene case slipped from his glove and
fell to the floor. He snatched it up as the moving train flung him
into his seat.

'How nice!' said the woman. She leisurely lifted her veil, unbottoned
the first button of her left glove, and pressed out from its palm a
Najdolene-case.

'Don't!' said Conroy, not realising he had spoken.

'I beg your pardon.' The deep voice was measured, even, and low. Conroy
knew what made it so.

'I said "don't"! He wouldn't like you to do it!'

'No, he would