chef at the other end of the dining car left his seat and came towards them.
“With every desire to help Madame,” he said, bowing to Charles, “it is, of course, impossible for us to issue a passport here on the train.”
“But listen,” she persisted, drawing a leather-bound object from her bag. “I have an old passport here. It is out of date but it could be extended.”
“There are difficulties about that,” the man objected.
She turned to Charles.
“Mr. Mildenhall,” she begged, “send him away for one moment.”
“The lady has something to confide to me,” Charles told the official.
The latter smiled and drew back. The Baroness looked into her companion’s eyes.
“Charles,” she said, “I am not a bad woman. I have never deceived anyone whom I have loved. I pray you—it is for your sake as well as mine—get me that passport.”
“For my sake?”
“I will take that back, but you will do a great, a wonderful kindness to a woman who is suffering if you will get me that passport, and you will do no harm nor bring any harm upon any human being in the world.”
She returned his steadfast gaze without flinching. Then he rose to his feet and drew the passport inspector outside the car.
“The lady is honest, I believe,” he said. “And her need for the passport is very real. You may lose promotion by doing a generous action. Let this recompense you.”
The notes passed into the man’s hand. He thrust them into his pocket.
“Come with me to the table, sir,” he said.
Charles obeyed. The man took up the old passport and placed a pen between Charles’s fingers.
“Sign your name, please, as sponsor there,” he begged, pointing to a certain place.
Charles did as he was told.
“Now write on this sheet of paper to me, sir:
“The Baroness von Ballinstrode has urgent need of a passport to replace the one stolen from her this morning. I guarantee her probity and that her name and the other particulars upon the passport which is out of date are true.”
Charles did as he was asked. The man blotted the piece of paper, placed it inside the document and presented it to the Baroness with a bow.
“That, Madame,” he said, “will pass you over the frontier to-day. I should advise you, though, as soon as you have an opportunity to take out a fresh passport.”
Beatrice smiled her thanks. She held Charles’s hand for a moment in hers. Then she swung around and without a backward glance stepped off the car. Charles returned to his place.
“God knows what old Blute would say to me,” he muttered to himself.
Ten o’clock came at last. Punctually they jogged slowly out of the station. Charles tried to settle down to read. It was impossible. The dining car was now full of passengers, some having their passports examined, others engaging in eager conversation. The short journey to the frontier seemed to Charles absolutely intolerable. He smoked several cigarettes, finally gave it up, put away his book and sat with folded arms and eyes resolutely turned away from the windows. They gained a little speed, slackened again and then came to a sudden stop. They were under the roof of a station. The platforms were crowded with shouting porters and streams of people passed the windows on their way to the Customs shed. Charles yielded over his belongings to a couple of blue-smocked men and told them to follow him to the office. Here he enquired for one of the chefs by name, exhibited his passport and pointed to his bags. The man scrawled across them.
“Diplomatic,” he grunted to the porters. “Passed.”
The fortunate passenger made his way back to the train. With a great effort he obeyed Blute’s request and made no attempt to discover either of his travelling companions. He entered the buffet, drank half a bottle of Swiss wine, paced up and down the platform for half-an-hour and then regained his seat. From a post of vantage he looked out on a very quaint spectacle. Two station officials were standing at the entrance to the private luggage van with their hats in their hands. Mr. Blute, one of the little group, was signing papers with a fountain pen. Charles heard some people on their way past the car speak of the terrible accident in the north and tell others that the bodies of the victims were on their way back to Grenoble for burial. Finally it was all over. Mr. Blute shook hands warmly with the officials and disappeared into the train. Very slowly it jolted out of the station.
In less than quarter-of-an-hour there was another halt. This time there was only a platform with no station, but the former was crowded with another company of officials. The examination, however, was only of passports and railway tickets. The period of tension, brief though it was, seemed to pass very slowly. At last they were moving again. They slipped farther and farther away from the entanglement of sidings and signal boxes. They began to gather speed. They were in the open country. The door of the dining car was suddenly swung open. Marius Blute and Patricia made their appearance. The former was carrying a bottle of champagne under his arm, the strain had gone from his face, a thin but genuine smile was parting his lips.
“Our effort is accomplished,” he announced. “We are safely in Switzerland. There is nothing more to be feared. I bought a bottle of Swiss champagne at the buffet. The attendant has given me three glasses. We will drink to our success, we will drink to one another, we will drink to this happy event which seems to be pending between you. Miss Grey, and Mr. Mildenhall!”
“Dear me,” she laughed, “I’m getting so used to the idea of being married to you, Charles!”
“You will never get used to it,” he declared as he drew the cork from the bottle and filled the glasses. “You will find being married to me fills life with continual novelty, you will find no time even to pity the many millions who cannot have that happiness.”
“I shall devote the earlier part of our life together,” she said severely, “towards filing down the sharp edges of your conceit.”
“So easily done,” he murmured. “The great success of my life—the winning of Patricia—has turned my head a little.”
“You two seem booked for a happy time, if you go on like this,” Blute declared. “Where’s the wedding going to be?”
And then, before either of them could deal with this rapturous subject, there came a sudden shock. The handsome guard of the train who had had nothing but smiles for them since the commencement of the journey came hurrying to where they were seated. He had lost alike his dignity, his composure and his slight swagger. He looked over his shoulder. There was no one within hearing. He leaned towards Blute. His voice shook.
“Did you ever hear of the Three G’s, sir?”
Blute started as though he had been struck.
“What—the Gervaise Gunther Gang?”
“They’re here—in the train—spread about! I’ve counted ten. One of them has tried twice to get into the van.”
“Is
