Meanwhile he devoured all the spy literature he could find, for, as he once remarked to himself, in dealing with such gentry you have to mind your P’s and QUEUX.  It was his only joke.

His literary choice dictated by such considerations, Mr. Jones picked his way delicately across the platforms till he reached his compartment, into the corner of which he stretched himself luxuriously and prepared to enjoy his book.

Just before the train started a lady entered carrying a baby and—­greatly to Mr. Jones’s annoyance—­took the corner seat opposite him.  Being a confirmed bachelor, he had a horror of all babies, but this child in particular struck him with disfavour; seldom, he thought, had he seen such a peevish discontented expression on any human face.

Close on the lady’s heels followed a withered old man of the traditional professorial type, who seated himself at the other end of the compartment.

Mr. Jones buried himself in his book.  For once, however, the narrative failed to entertain him.  Beautiful spies lavished their witchery in vain; the sagacity of the hero left him cold.

Suddenly an atmosphere of unrest and agitation conveyed itself to him.  The train was slowing down in the darkness; the lady opposite was leaning forward, her face pale, her whole attitude tense with excitement.  The train stopped; outside someone was walking along the metals; there came the sound of a guttural remark.

The lady put her hand to her heart and, turning to the elderly gentleman, gasped, “Doctor, that was his voice.  They have tracked us.”

The old man rose quietly and, opening the far door, stood waiting.

“But the child?” she cried with a sob.

“He must be left behind, Madame.  There is less danger thus.”

“But what am I to do?” She turned to Mr. Jones, looked at him steadily and fixedly, and then, as if satisfied with what she read in him, exclaimed, “You have a good heart.  You must keep him.  Do not let them have him; too much depends upon it.”

And before the astonished cashier had time to protest his fellow-travellers had gone and he was alone with the child.

But not for long.  Just as the train commenced to move again three men entered the compartment; two appeared to be servants, but the third was a young man of distinguished appearance, the most conspicuous items of whose attire were a dark Homburg hat and a long cape of Continental cut.

Mr. Jones’s heart missed a beat.

Throwing a searching glance around the compartment the stranger rapped out, “There has been a lady in here?”

“No,” replied Mr. Jones, on general principles.

For answer the stranger picked a cambric handkerchief off the floor.

“That’s mine,” said Mr. Jones hastily.

“Perhaps,” was the sneering reply, “you will tell me also that the child is yours.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Jones, ruffled by his cross-examination; “it always has been.”