not, Madame,” he assured her; “the brake, I gather, is already in working order. It is now, it seems, more an affair of the driver’s honour.”
“That, perhaps, is a matter not so easily disposed of.”
As she spoke there was the blast of a whistle and cries of “
en voiture
” as the passengers hurriedly scrambled back into the train.
Carruthers cast about desperately for a means of continuing the conversation. The train was already moving and she was making as if to return to her compartment.
“Are you going to Bucharest, too, Madame?”
She was non-committal. To Bucharest, yes; but not to stay there. She volunteered no further information. Carruthers changed his tactics.
“I, too, am travelling beyond Bucharest. I am going to Zovgorod.”
He sensed an immediate almost imperceptible change in her attitude towards him. She spoke softly.
“Indeed?”
“You know Zovgorod?” he said idly.
“I have been there.” She paused; then, turning swiftly to meet his eyes, “You go on business, Monsieur?”
The sudden directness took him unawares. She was watching him closely. With an uneasy feeling that he had aroused her suspicions of him by his question, he smiled disarmingly.
“Fortunately, no. I am merely indulging my hobby—photography. There is, I am told, some unique scenery in the neighbourhood of Zovgorod.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“So? I had not heard of it. Ixania sees few tourists. There is little of the picturesque in Ixania which is not reproduced, with the added advantage of adequate hotel accommodation, across her frontiers.”
She spoke bitterly and remained staring out of the window as if her words had started an unhappy train of thought. Carruthers, only too well aware of the probable fatuity of his hastily improvised explanation, hoped that her thoughts had been deflected. He was disappointed.
She turned to him again.
“You have been misinformed of the attractions of Ixania, my friend,” she said firmly. “I recommend you to change your plans.”
Carruthers shrugged his shoulders.
“One seeks novelty,” he said a trifle lamely. Mentally he resolved to make a camera one of his first purchases at Bâle.
“Change your plans nevertheless, Monsieur. Ixania is unhealthy for visitors—especially in the spring.”
Again he encountered her highly disconcerting stare. Hehad no further doubts. He was being warned. In some mysterious way she had discovered his identity. Of whether she now knew him as Conway Carruthers or as Professor Barstow, technical adviser to Cator & Bliss, he was, however, ignorant. A lot might depend on how much she knew.
There was nothing to be gained by appearing too perceptive. He smiled incredulously and was about to reply when in loud, clear tones she interrupted him.
“Monsieur, would you have the goodness to tell me at what hour we arrive at Bâle?”
“Eight-thirty, Madame.”
“
Merci, Monsieur
.”
With a gracious smile she turned and retired into her own compartment, shutting the door behind her. Out of the corner of his eye, Carruthers discovered the reason.
At the end of the corridor, watching them, stood Groom.
5
April 20th (continued)
I t was early evening and the train was racing through the rich fields of the Saône valley before Groom referred to the encounter in the corridor.
Leaning back in his corner, Carruthers had been endeavouring to piece the situation together from the fragmentary facts he had gleaned and the conjectures he had made.
Firstly, Groom, the representative of an arms firm, was out to prevent the manufacture of the Kassen explosive. Secondly, Groom wished to secure the process for his own use. Thirdly, he had engaged, or thought he had engaged, a technical expert to assist him in the latter task. Fourthly, the Ixanian representative from London was unwittingly leading Groom towards his headquarters in Ixania. Fifthly, the presence of one particular person on the train had disconcerted him. The rest was
“That, perhaps, is a matter not so easily disposed of.”
As she spoke there was the blast of a whistle and cries of “
en voiture
” as the passengers hurriedly scrambled back into the train.
Carruthers cast about desperately for a means of continuing the conversation. The train was already moving and she was making as if to return to her compartment.
“Are you going to Bucharest, too, Madame?”
She was non-committal. To Bucharest, yes; but not to stay there. She volunteered no further information. Carruthers changed his tactics.
“I, too, am travelling beyond Bucharest. I am going to Zovgorod.”
He sensed an immediate almost imperceptible change in her attitude towards him. She spoke softly.
“Indeed?”
“You know Zovgorod?” he said idly.
“I have been there.” She paused; then, turning swiftly to meet his eyes, “You go on business, Monsieur?”
The sudden directness took him unawares. She was watching him closely. With an uneasy feeling that he had aroused her suspicions of him by his question, he smiled disarmingly.
“Fortunately, no. I am merely indulging my hobby—photography. There is, I am told, some unique scenery in the neighbourhood of Zovgorod.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“So? I had not heard of it. Ixania sees few tourists. There is little of the picturesque in Ixania which is not reproduced, with the added advantage of adequate hotel accommodation, across her frontiers.”
She spoke bitterly and remained staring out of the window as if her words had started an unhappy train of thought. Carruthers, only too well aware of the probable fatuity of his hastily improvised explanation, hoped that her thoughts had been deflected. He was disappointed.
She turned to him again.
“You have been misinformed of the attractions of Ixania, my friend,” she said firmly. “I recommend you to change your plans.”
Carruthers shrugged his shoulders.
“One seeks novelty,” he said a trifle lamely. Mentally he resolved to make a camera one of his first purchases at Bâle.
“Change your plans nevertheless, Monsieur. Ixania is unhealthy for visitors—especially in the spring.”
Again he encountered her highly disconcerting stare. Hehad no further doubts. He was being warned. In some mysterious way she had discovered his identity. Of whether she now knew him as Conway Carruthers or as Professor Barstow, technical adviser to Cator & Bliss, he was, however, ignorant. A lot might depend on how much she knew.
There was nothing to be gained by appearing too perceptive. He smiled incredulously and was about to reply when in loud, clear tones she interrupted him.
“Monsieur, would you have the goodness to tell me at what hour we arrive at Bâle?”
“Eight-thirty, Madame.”
“
Merci, Monsieur
.”
With a gracious smile she turned and retired into her own compartment, shutting the door behind her. Out of the corner of his eye, Carruthers discovered the reason.
At the end of the corridor, watching them, stood Groom.
5
April 20th (continued)
I t was early evening and the train was racing through the rich fields of the Saône valley before Groom referred to the encounter in the corridor.
Leaning back in his corner, Carruthers had been endeavouring to piece the situation together from the fragmentary facts he had gleaned and the conjectures he had made.
Firstly, Groom, the representative of an arms firm, was out to prevent the manufacture of the Kassen explosive. Secondly, Groom wished to secure the process for his own use. Thirdly, he had engaged, or thought he had engaged, a technical expert to assist him in the latter task. Fourthly, the Ixanian representative from London was unwittingly leading Groom towards his headquarters in Ixania. Fifthly, the presence of one particular person on the train had disconcerted him. The rest was
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