The Numbered Account by Ann Bridge Page A

passage about the ‘most undesirable characters’ taking rapid action made her wonder if she ought to mention the curious episode of the girl at Victoria, but when she looked at her watch she decided that there wasn’t time; she closed her letter and ran down, hatless, with it to the post-office.
    On the way back she slipped into one of the lake-side hotels, borrowed a time-table from the porter, and looked out the trains to Bellardon. It meant an early start, and she did most of her packing before she went to sit with Mrs. Hathaway before dinner; even before doing that, and while Herr Waechter was still out, she put through a call to La Cure giving the time of her train, blessing the anonymity of the Swiss automatic exchanges. If this sort of thing was going on, one couldn’t be too careful.
    She was off next morning on the first boat to Lucerne, and continued by train to Berne, where she had to change. Her luggage there was carried by the same tall porter; looking from her carriage window Julia caught sight of the detective!—also seeing his luggage aboard the train for Geneva. Julia saw him first, and watched him furtively; this time he appeared to be much more definitely on the look-out for someone than he had been at Victoria. She studied his face again, and found it more attractive than ever. ‘Gothic’ was undoubtedly the word for its rather harsh angles and deeply-incised lines; it was also intelligent, and the expression at once sardonic and gay. It was curious, seeing him again like this; she wondered what he was up to. Could
he
be one of Colin’s undesirable characters?
    Julia had time in hand, and she was hungry after a 7 a.m. breakfast; when the detective had entered his train she got out and went in search of a sandwich and a newspaper. Returning with both, hurrying through the subwaywhich at Berne Haupt-Bahnhof connects all the platforms, she ran slap into him, coming down the steps. He stared—then gave his twisted grin, and half-lifted his hat. Clearly he remembered her. Slightly disconcerted, Julia regained her carriage.
    The lowland agricultural cantons of Switzerland, like Vaud and Fribourg, are little visited by foreign tourists, and were as unexpected by Julia as Herr Waechter’s house. Sitting in the train, thankfully munching her
Schinken-Brötchen
, she noted with a country-woman’s interest the methods of the Swiss farmers: the fresh grass being mown by hand in narrow strips and carted off to feed the stalled cows; the early hay hung on wooden or metal triangles to be dried by air as well as sun; the intense neatness of the gardens round the houses, with rows oflettuces and shallots, and a single stick to support the French beans, at present only a green clump of leaves at its foot. The houses themselves surprised her; she had imagined all the Swiss to live in wooden chalets, but here the houses, though deep-eaved, seemed to be much more plaster than timber. Now and again, towards the end of her journey, on her right she caught glimpses of a lake which a fellow-passenger told her was Neuchâtel; and on the horizon hung the blue shadow of the Jura.
    She did not stay in the hotel at Bellardon, for the excellent reason that there is none. It is a tiny place, where tourists are unknown. At the station, where she was the only passenger to alight, Julia was met by a small dark-haired woman, rather beautiful, who said, ‘You will be Miss Probyn? I am Germaine de Ritter.’ Mme de Ritter caused the stationmaster, the sole railway employee of Bellardon, to pile Julia’s luggage onto a small hand-cart with a long handle, the exact duplicate of that used by Herr Waechter’s manservant at Gersau; this she pulled after her out into a small sunny street, saying easily—‘My husband had to take the car, but it is only two instants to the house. We are so glad that you have come to us; we are devoted to Aglaia’—which made Julia feel