I folded my arms across my chest, glanced up to see where the cord of communication might be found in case of emergency; and then reflected that these men were not likely to be dangerous, since I had followed them into the compartment, not they me.  This thought was reassuring, as they were three to one if they combined against me, and the train was, unfortunately, not entirely a corridor train.  Therefore, having assured myself that I was not among spies bent on having my life or the secret I carried, I forgot about my fellow-travellers, and fell into gloomy speculations as to my chances with Diana.  I had been loving her, thinking of little else but her and my hopes of her, for many months now; but never had I realised what a miserable, empty world it would be for me without Di for my own, as I did now, when I had perhaps lost her.

Not that I would allow myself to think that I could not get her back.  I would not think it.  I would force her to believe in me, to trust me, even to repent her suspicions, though appearances were all against me, and Heaven knew how much or when I might be permitted to explain.  I would not be a man if I took her at her word, and let her slip from me, no matter how many times that word were repeated; so I told myself over and over.  Yet a voice inside me seemed to say that nothing could be as it had been; that I’d sacrificed my happiness to please a stranger, and to save a woman whom I had never really loved.

Di was so beautiful, so sweet, so used to being admired by men; there were so many who loved her, so many with a thousand times more to offer than I had or would ever have:  how could I hope that she would go on caring for me, after what had happened to-day?  I wondered.  She hadn’t said in actual words last night that she would marry me, whereas this morning she had almost said she never would.  I should have nobody to blame but myself if I came back to London to-morrow to find her engaged to Lord Robert West—­a man who, as his brother has no children, might some day make her a Duchess.

“Sorry to have seemed rude just now, sir,” said one of the two railway-key men, suddenly reminding me of his unnecessary existence.  “Hardly knew what I was about when I shoved you away from the door.  Me and my friend was afraid of missing the train, so we pushed—­instinct of self-preservation, I suppose,” and he chuckled as if he had got off some witticism.  “Anyhow, I apologise.  Nothing intentional, ’pon my word.”

“Thanks.  No apology is necessary,” I replied as indifferently as I felt.

“That’s all right, then,” finished the Jewish-faced man, who had spoken.  He turned to his companion, and the two resumed their conversation behind the newspaper:  but I now became conscious that they occasionally glanced over the top at their neighbour or at me, as if their whole attention were not taken up with the news of the day.