“We may be here for an hour,” I said, “and there is no buffet car on.  If I remember my youth, that bell means ham and eggs and country butter and coffee.  If you care to run the risk—­”

“I am not hungry,” she said, “but perhaps a cup of coffee—­dear me, I believe I am hungry,” she finished.  “Only—­” She glanced back of her.

“I can bring your companion,” I suggested, without enthusiasm.  But the young woman shook her head.

“She is not hungry,” she objected, “and she is very—­well, I know she wouldn’t come.  Do you suppose we could make it if we run?”

“I haven’t any idea,” I said cheerfully.  “Any old train would be better than this one, if it does leave us behind.”

“Yes.  Any train would be better than this one,” she repeated gravely.  I found myself watching her changing expression.  I had spoken two dozen words to her and already I felt that I knew the lights and shades in her voice,—­I, who had always known how a woman rode to hounds, and who never could have told the color of her hair.

I stepped down on the ties and turned to assist her, and together we walked back to where the conductor and the porter from our car were in close conversation.  Instinctively my hand went to my cigarette pocket and came out empty.  She saw the gesture.

“If you want to smoke, you may,” she said.  “I have a big cousin who smokes all the time.  He says I am ‘kippered.’”

I drew out the gun-metal cigarette case and opened it.  But this most commonplace action had an extraordinary result:  the girl beside me stopped dead still and stood staring at it with fascinated eyes.

“Is—­where did you get that?” she demanded, with a catch in her voice; her gaze still fixed on the cigarette case.

“Then you haven’t heard the rest of the tragedy?” I asked, holding out the case.  “It’s frightfully bad luck for me, but it makes a good story.  You see—­”

At that moment the conductor and porter ceased their colloquy.  The conductor came directly toward me, tugging as he came at his bristling gray mustache.

“I would like to talk to you in the car,” he said to me, with a curious glance at the young lady.

“Can’t it wait?” I objected.  “We are on our way to a cup of coffee and a slice of bacon.  Be merciful, as you are powerful.”

“I’m afraid the breakfast will have to wait,” he replied.  “I won’t keep you long.”  There was a note of authority in his voice which I resented; but, after all, the circumstances were unusual.

“We’ll have to defer that cup of coffee for a while,” I said to the girl; “but don’t despair; there’s breakfast somewhere.”

As we entered the car, she stood aside, but I felt rather than saw that she followed us.  I was surprised to see a half dozen men gathered around the berth in which I had wakened, number seven.  It had not yet been made up.

As we passed along the aisle, I was conscious of a new expression on the faces of the passengers.  The tall woman who had fainted was searching my face with narrowed eyes, while the stout woman of the kindly heart avoided my gaze, and pretended to look out the window.