“Oh, there wouldn’t be anything personal in her liking your looks.  It would be merely deciding that personally you would do,” Miss Macroyd laughed, as always, and Verrian put on a mock seriousness in asking: 

“Then I needn’t be serious if there should happen to be anything so Westangular as a Mr. Westangle?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“But there is something?”

“Oh, I believe so.  But not probably at Seasands.”

“Is that her house?”

“Yes.  Every other name had been used, and she couldn’t say Soundsands.”

“Then where would the Mr. Westangular part more probably be found?”

“Oh, in Montana or Mesopotamia, or any of those places.  Don’t you know about him?  How ignorant literary people can be!  Why, he was the Amalgamated Clothespin.  You haven’t heard of that?”

She went on to tell him, with gay digressions, about the invention which enabled Westangle to buy up the other clothes-pins and merge them in his own—­to become a commercial octopus, clutching the throats of other clothespin inventors in the tentacles of the Westangle pin.  “But he isn’t in clothespins now.  He’s in mines, and banks, and steamboats, and railroads, and I don’t know what all; and Mrs. Westangle, the second of her name, never was in clothespins.”

Miss Macroyd laughed all through her talk, and she was in a final burst of laughing when the train slowed into Stamford.  There a girl came into the car trailing her skirts with a sort of vivid debility and overturning some minor pieces of hand-baggage which her draperies swept out of their shelter beside the chairs.  She had to take one of the seats which back against the wall of the state-room, where she must face the whole length of the car.  She sat weakly fallen back in the chair and motionless, as if almost unconscious; but after the train had begun to stir she started up, and with a quick flinging of her veil aside turned to look out of the window.  In the flying instant Verrian saw a colorless face with pinched and sunken eyes under a worn-looking forehead, and a withered mouth whose lips parted feebly.

On her part, Miss Macroyd had doubtless already noted that the girl was, with no show of expensiveness, authoritatively well gowned and personally hatted.  She stared at her, and said, “What a very hunted and escaping effect.”

“She does look rather-fugitive,” Verrian agreed, staring too.

“One might almost fancy—­an asylum.”

“Yes, or a hospital.”

They continued both to stare at her, helpless for what ever different reasons to take their eyes away, and they were still interested in her when they heard her asking the conductor, “Must I change and take another train before we get to Belford?  My friends thought—­”

“No, this train stops at Southfield,” the conductor answered, absently biting several holes into her drawing-room ticket.