“Yes, miss; and what shall I tell her?”

“Ahem!  It’s a—­a gentleman.  Ask him to—­to come to the rear end of the train.  That’s all.  Oh, conductor, how soon will we be on the track again?” The conductor was standing in the door, evidently impressed by the summons from the drawing-room.

“We’re not off the track, madam.  There is no danger—­just a little delay.  I have telegraphed to see if I can have a relief train come down from Omegon and pick us up after we’ve been ferried across the river.”

“This is the very worst road I’ve ever travelled over—­the very worst,” was Eleanor’s natural complaint.  “When will that get us to Omegon?”

“We should be there in an hour after leaving here.”

“And when did you say we’d leave here?”

“I didn’t say.  I don’t know.”

“Who does know, if you don’t?” demanded Eleanor.

“God, I presume,” observed the harassed conductor, turning away with the realisation that he had erred in coming to her in the first place.  The porter returned at that moment.

“Nobody in that section, ma’am.  It was sold, but the party didn’t show up.”

“Good Heavens, you—­but he did show up.  I—­I know he did.  Look again.  Try—­but wait!  Ask for Mr. Dauntless.  Ask quietly, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her nerves at highest tension, Miss Thursdale made her way toward the rear platform of the train.  She passed down the curtained aisles of two coaches, wondering how people could sleep so soundly in a crisis like this.  A porter politely opened a door and she slipped out upon the last platform.  As far as the eye could reach stretched the roadbed and its telegraph poles, finally disappearing in the haze of the morning.  Wide-spread flood, soaking the flat—–­

A sharp cry of amazement came from the track just below her.  She looked down and into the eyes of Anne Courtenay, the governess.  For a full minute they stared blankly at each other, apparently bereft of all the agencies that fall to the lot of woman.

“Miss Courtenay!” finally came from the lips of the girl on the platform.

“Miss Thursdale!” murmured Anne, reaching out to support herself against the bumper.  Other words failed to come for the time being.  In sheer despair, neither could accomplish more than a pallid smile.  To the reader is left the privilege of analysing the thoughts which surged through the brains of the bewildered young women,—­the fears, the doubts, the resentments.

“Where—­where have you been?” at last fell from Miss Thursdale’s lips.

“Been?” repeated Miss Courtenay, vaguely.  “Oh, yes; I’ve been taking a walk—­a constitutional.  I always do.”

Eleanor stared harder than ever.  “All this distance?” she murmured.

“Down the track for half a mile, Miss Thursdale.”

“Are—­were you on this train?” ejaculated Eleanor.

“Yes—­but I—­I—–­” stammered Anne, her face growing red with rising resentment.  “I did not think this of you.”