“And I,” I declared coolly, “am delighted, I assure you.  It is great luck meeting you like this; and I will not let you slip away.  I suppose that when we board the train they will serve us a meal of some sort.  Won’t you give me the pleasure of having you for my guest?”

The brightness had left her face as she sensed my attitude.  She drew back, regarding me in a rebuffed, bewildered way.

“Thank you, no.  I am not hungry.”

By Jove, but she was an actress!  I should have sworn I had hurt her if I hadn’t known the truth.

“Don’t say that!” I protested.  “Of course it is unconventional to dine with a stranger; but then so is almost everything that is happening to you and me.  Think of those lord high executioners in there round the table.  See this platform with its guards and bayonets and guns.  And then remember our odd experiences on the Re d’Italia.  Won’t you risk one more informality and come and dine?”

She hesitated a moment, watching me steadily; then, with proud reluctance, she walked beside me toward the train.

“You helped me once,” she said, her eyes averted now, “and I haven’t forgotten.  I don’t understand at all,—­but I shall do as you say.”

The passengers were being herded aboard by eager, bustling officials.  I saw my baggage and the girl’s installed, disposed of the porters, and guided my companion to the wagon restaurant.  The horn was sounding as we entered, and at six-thirty promptly, just as I put Miss Falconer in her chair, we pulled out of the snowy station of Modane.

As I studied the menu, the girl sat with lowered lashes, all things about her, from her darkened eyes and high head to her pallor, proclaiming her feeling of offense, her sense of hurt.  She knew her game, I admitted, and she had first-class weapons.  Though she could not weaken my resolution, she made my beginning hard.

“We are going to have a discouraging meal,” I gossiped procrastinatingly.  “But, since we are in France, it will be a little less horrible than the usual dining-car.  The wine is probably hopeless; I suggest Evian or Vichy.  These radishes look promising.  Will you have some?”

“No.  I am not hungry,” she repeated briefly.  “Won’t you please tell me what you have to say?”

Though I didn’t in the least want them, I ate a few of the radishes just to show that I was not abashed by her haughty, reproachful air.  Other passengers were strolling in.  Here was Mr. John Van Blarcom, who, at the sight of Miss Falconer and myself to all appearances cozily established for a tete-a-tete meal, stopped in his tracks and fastened on me the hard, appraising scrutiny that a policeman might turn on a hitherto respectable acquaintance discovered in converse with some notorious crook.  For an instant he seemed disposed to buttonhole me and remonstrate.  Then he shrugged his stocky shoulders, the gesture indicating that one can’t save a fool from his folly, and established himself at a near-by table, from which coign of vantage he kept us under steady watch.