the eyes that looked down at her.

A queer fancy ran through the man's brain. He imagined that a woman
being tried for her life might look at the judge with just that
expression. "What do you mean?" asked Sands.

He had resisted the jerk of the train, and was still on his feet.
Instead of answering his question, the girl begged him to sit down.

"I can't think properly while it seems as if you were waiting to turn me
out," she said.

Sands sat down.

"I hardly know how to tell you what I mean. I hardly dare," the voice
went on, while he wondered. "It's a tremendous thing to ask. I can't
explain ... and if I hesitate it will be too late. I don't know your
name, or your character, except what I judge from your face. The way to
save me is to keep me in this stateroom with the door shut, as far as
Chicago."

"Good heavens! That's...." Sands was going to end his sentence with
"absolutely impossible!" But he stopped in the midst. Her eyes made him
stop. It was as if he were pronouncing a death sentence. He was silent
for a few seconds.

"I'd have to say ... no, I could not say you were my wife, because
everyone knows I've not got a wife. I'll say you are my cousin: say
you've come late. I want you to have this stateroom, and I'll take
another ... or a section. I--I could do that."

"Will you?" she breathed.

"Yes. I will."

He said this almost sullenly. He was thinking: "Pretty smart new dodge!
Neat way to get a stateroom all the way from Albuquerque to Chicago."

"I'll go out now and fix things up with the conductor," he promised. "We
must settle on a story. You came on board at Albuquerque just now?"

"Yes. The last minute before the train started. I have a berth in this
car. I thought I was safe, that everything was right for me. Then I saw
the man ... not the one I expected; worse. He wasn't in this car, but
the next. I saw him standing there. He was looking at some ladies
passing through. One had on deep mourning, and a crepe veil. Perhaps he
believed it was I. I turned and rushed this way. Your door was open, and
you ... you looked like a real man. That's all."

"What about your baggage?"

"I have nothing. I ... was in a hurry."

"In what name did you make your reservation?"

"Miss Beverley White. White isn't my real name: Beverley is ... one of
my names. I can't tell you more."

"All right. The porter will get some toilet things for my cousin whom
I'm to chaperon from Albuquerque to Chicago, and