A “fugitive from justice” on the train!  Mr. Heatherbloom tried to look as little the part as possible, to simulate by his expression a preoccupied young business man of heavy responsibilities.  Fortunately the train was crowded; nevertheless he fancied people glanced especially at him.  He wished now he were better dressed; good clothes may cover a multitude of sins.  Still there was no reason why he should be suspected more than sundry other indifferently-dressed people.  He would dismiss the thought, tell himself he was going down town on some little errand; he even devised what that errand should be—­to procure theater tickets.  But his brain did not seem quite capable of concentrating itself solely on desirable orchestra chairs; it constantly and perversely reverted to that other disagreeable subject—­a “fugitive from—­”

Whoever could the fellow be?  He endeavored by a mental process to eliminate himself and see but a mythical some one else in a mythical background.  A short person; a tall one?  What kind of person would the imaginary individual be, anyhow?  And what had he done, what crime committed?  Mr. Heatherbloom tried to think with the minds of all these other people on the train, to put himself figuratively in their shoes.

One young sprig of a girl, about fourteen, with sallow complexion and bead-like black eyes, kept regarding him.  He conceived a profound dislike for her, shifted a foot; then straightened and banished her peremptorily from his environment.  His principal interest lay now in casual glimpses of windows and speculation as to what was behind them.  He varied this employment in a passing endeavor to decipher sundry signs that obtruded incidentally within range of vision.

He had made out only a few when the, train slackened and came to a standstill.  Mr. Heatherbloom told himself he would get off as quickly as possible; then changed his mind and remained.  People would, of course, argue that, under the circumstances, the unknown criminal would be among those to leave the train at the first opportunity.

A number got out; Mr. Heatherbloom noted the passengers who remained aboard and watched closely the departing ones.  A few of the latter seemed slightly self-conscious, notably, an elderly spinster who, having never done anything wrong, was possessed of an unusual sensitiveness.

“See that slouchy chap—­By jove, I believe—­”

“Does look like a tough customer—­”

“On the contrary, he just looks poor.”  Mr. Heatherbloom turned upon the two speakers warmly.

Why could he not have kept silent; why was he obliged to obtrude his opinion into their conversation?

They stared and he half turned as the train banged itself along once more.  Where should he go?  Reaching for a paper that some one had discarded, he sank into a vacant seat and opened the sheet with misgiving.