As we pushed our way through the group, I fancied that it closed around me ominously.  The conductor said nothing, but led the way without ceremony to the side of the berth.

“What’s the matter?” I inquired.  I was puzzled, but not apprehensive.  “Have you some of my things?  I’d be thankful even for my shoes; these are confoundedly tight.”

Nobody spoke, and I fell silent, too.  For one of the pillows had been turned over, and the under side of the white case was streaked with brownish stains.  I think it was a perceptible time before I realized that the stains were blood, and that the faces around were filled with suspicion and distrust.

“Why, it—­that looks like blood,” I said vacuously.  There was an incessant pounding in my ears, and the conductor’s voice came from far off.

“It is blood,” he asserted grimly.

I looked around with a dizzy attempt at nonchalance.  “Even if it is,” I remonstrated, “surely you don’t suppose for a moment that I know anything about it!”

The amateur detective elbowed his way in.  He had a scrap of transparent paper in his hand, and a pencil.

“I would like permission to trace the stains,” he began eagerly.  “Also”—­to me—­“if you will kindly jab your finger with a pin—­needle—­anything—­”

“If you don’t keep out of this,” the conductor said savagely, “I will do some jabbing myself.  As for you, sir—­” he turned to me.  I was absolutely innocent, but I knew that I presented a typical picture of guilt; I was covered with cold sweat, and the pounding in my ears kept up dizzily.  “As for you, sir—­”

The irrepressible amateur detective made a quick pounce at the pillow and pushed back the cover.  Before our incredulous eyes he drew out a narrow steel dirk which had been buried to the small cross that served as a head.

There was a chorus of voices around, a quick surging forward of the crowd.  So that was what had scratched my hand!  I buried the wound in my coat pocket.

“Well,” I said, trying to speak naturally, “doesn’t that prove what I have been telling you?  The man who committed the murder belonged to this berth, and made an exchange in some way after the crime.  How do you know he didn’t change the tags so I would come back to this berth?” This was an inspiration; I was pleased with it.  “That’s what he did, he changed the tags,” I reiterated.

There was a murmur of assent around.  The doctor, who was standing beside me, put his hand on my arm.  “If this gentleman committed this crime, and I for one feel sure he did not, then who is the fellow who got away?  And why did he go?”

“We have only one man’s word for that,” the conductor snarled.  “I’ve traveled some in these cars myself, and no one ever changed berths with me.”

Somebody on the edge of the group asserted that hereafter he would travel by daylight.  I glanced up and caught the eye of the girl in blue.