No sooner had Captain Ducie lighted his cigar than with an impatient movement he put down the window close to which he was sitting.  It had been carefully put up by the stranger while Ducie was in the refreshment room; but the latter was a man who always studied his own comfort before that of anyone else, except when self whispered to him that such a course was opposed to his own interests, which was more than he could see in the present case.

The stranger gave a little sniggering laugh as the window fell noisily; then he shivered and drew his furs more closely around him.  “It is strange how fond you English people are of what you call fresh air,” he said.  “In Italy fresh air may be a luxury, but it cannot be had in your hang-dog climate without one takes a catarrh at the same time.”

Captain Ducie surveyed him coolly from head to foot for a moment or two.  Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him.  “I must really ask you to pardon my rudeness,” he said, lifting his Glengarry.  “If the open window is the least annoyance to you, by all means let it be shut.  To me it is a matter of perfect indifference.”  As he spoke he pulled the window up, and then he turned on the stranger with a look that seemed to imply:  “Although I seemed so truculent a few minutes ago, you see what a good-natured fellow I am at heart.”  In most of Captain Ducie’s actions there was some ulterior motive at work, however trivial many of his actions might appear to an outsider, and in the present case it was not likely that he acted out of mere complaisance to a man whom he had never seen nor heard of ten minutes previously.

“You are too good—­really far too good,” said the stranger.  “Suppose we compromise the matter?” With that his lean hands, encased in lemon-coloured gloves, let down the window a couple of inches, and fixed it there with the strap.

“Now really, you know, do just as you like about it,” said the Captain, with that slow amused smile which became his face so well.  “As I said before, I am altogether indifferent in the matter.”

“As it is now, it will suit both of us, I think.  And now to join you in your smoke.”

From the net over his head he reached down a small mahogany case.  This he opened, and from it extracted a large meerschaum pipe elaborately mounted with gold filigree work.  Having charged the pipe from an embroidered pouch filled with choice Turkish tobacco, he struck an allumette and began to smoke.

“Decidedly an acquaintance worth cultivating,” murmured the Captain under his breath.  “But what country does the beggar belong to?” A question more easily asked than answered:  at all events, it was one which the Captain found himself unable to solve to his own satisfaction.  For a few minutes they smoked in silence.

“Do you travel far, to-day?” asked the stranger at length.  “Are you going across the Border?”

“The end of my journey is Stapleton, Lord Barnstake’s place, and not a great way from Edinburgh.  Shall I have the pleasure of your company as far as I go by rail?”