[He indicates a certain berth.]

THE PORTER.  Dat’s a gen’leman in dat berth, I think, sah.

MR. ROBERTS (astutely).  There’s a bonnet hanging from the hook at the top.  I’m not sure, but it looks like my wife’s bonnet.

THE PORTER (evidently shaken by this reasoning, but recovering his firmness).  Yes, sah.  But you can’t depend upon de ladies to hang deir bonnets on de right hook.  Jes’ likely as not dat lady’s took de hook at de foot of her berth instead o’ de head.  Sometimes dey takes both.

MR. ROBERTS.  Ah! [After a pause.] Porter!

THE PORTER.  Yes, sah.

MR. ROBERTS.  You wouldn’t feel justified in looking?

THE PORTER.  I couldn’t, sah; I couldn’t, indeed.

MR. ROBERTS (reaching his left hand toward THE PORTER’S, and pressing a half dollar into his instantly responsive palm).  But there’s nothing to prevent my looking if I feel perfectly sure of the bonnet?

THE PORTER.  N-no, sah.

MR. ROBERTS.  All right.

[THE PORTER retires to the end of the car, and resumes the work of polishing the passengers’ boots.  After an interval of quiet, MR. ROBERTS rises, and, looking about him with what he feels to be melodramatic stealth, approaches the suspected berth.  He unloops the curtain with a trembling hand, and peers ineffectually in; he advances his head further and further into the darkened recess, and then suddenly dodges back again, with THE CALIFORNIAN hanging to his neckcloth with one hand.]

THE CALIFORNIAN (savagely).  What do you want?

MR. ROBERTS (struggling and breathless).  I—­I—­I want my wife.

THE CALIFORNIAN.  Want your wife!  Have I got your wife?

MR. ROBERTS.  No—­ah—­that is—­ah, excuse me—­I thought you were my wife.

THE CALIFORNIAN (getting out of the berth, but at the same time keeping hold of MR. ROBERTS).  Thought I was your wife!  Do I look like your wife?  You can’t play that on me, old man.  Porter! conductor!

MR. ROBERTS (agonized).  Oh, I beseech you, my dear sir, don’t—­don’t!  I can explain it—­I can indeed.  I know it has an ugly look; but if you will allow me two words—­only two words—­

MRS. ROBERTS (suddenly parting the curtain of her berth, and springing out into the aisle, with her hair wildly dishevelled).  Edward!

MR. ROBERTS.  Oh, Agnes, explain to this gentleman! [Imploringly.] Don’t you know me?

A VOICE.  Make him show you the strawberry mark on his left arm.

MRS. ROBERTS.  Edward!  Edward! [THE CALIFORNIAN mechanically looses his grip, and they fly into each other’s embrace.] Where did you come from?

A VOICE.  Centre door, left hand, one back.

THE CONDUCTOR (returning with his lantern).  Hallo!  What’s the matter here?

A VOICE.  Train robbers!  Throw up your hands!  Tell the express-messenger to bring his safe.