In the corner of the first-class carriage farthest away from the
platform, the Princess Petrovska sat with her hands on her lap and a rug
round her knees, glancing idly from under her long eyelashes at the
people thronging the Euston departure platform. Her eyes rested
incuriously now and again upon a couple of men who stood in conversation
by a pile of luggage some distance away, but within eyeshot of the
compartment.
She had some vague recollection of having seen one of the men before,
and though she remained apparently languidly interested in the business
of the platform, she was racking her brains to think who he was or where
she had seen him. It was recently, she was certain. Suddenly she leaned
forward, and her smooth brow contracted in a frown. Yes--she was nearly
certain. He had an overcoat and a silk hat on now, but when she last saw
him he had been a bare-headed, frock-coated clerk in the advertisement
office of the _Daily Wire_. The frown disappeared and she dropped back.
But behind the placid face an alert brain was working. Had the man
followed her, or was it a mere coincidence? Was he a detective? With an
effort of will she stilled the apprehension in her breast. Her
confidence reasserted itself. Even if he were a detective, what had she
to fear? She had merely delivered a cipher advertisement over the
counter. It was unlikely that it would be read by others than the
person for whom it was intended. Even if it were, there was nothing in
it to incriminate her.
Her lips parted in a contemptuous smile.
"I don't believe he is a detective at all," she murmured.
All doubts on the subject, however, were set at rest as the express
began to glide out of the station. As though taken unawares by its
departure, the man hastily shook hands with his friend and sprinted for
the train, swinging himself into the woman's compartment with a gasp of
relief.
"Phew," he said. "A narrow shave that," and then, as if realising the
sex of his companion, "I--I beg your pardon. I hope the carriage is not
reserved. If so, I will change."
She smiled winningly at him.
"No, don't disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a pity after all the
trouble you have taken--to catch the train."
Detective-Inspector Blake was not by any means dull. His immobile
features gave no sign that he was half inclined to believe the woman was
gibing him. "Now, what the devil does she mean by that?" he said, under
his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and drawing a
paper from his pocket unfolded it.
"And how is the charming Mr. Foyle?" said the Princess, speaking with a
soft drawl. "I do hope he is still well."
This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped the paper as though it
were red-hot, and the woman laughed. A moment later he was ashamed of
himself. She had trapped him into a tacit admission that he was a
detective. A surprised denial of acquaintance with Mr. Foyle might have
ended in an apology on her part for a mistake. Well, it was too late
now.
"So you are a colleague of Mr. Foyle's?" she went on, and though her
voice was soft there was a trace of mockery in it. "He is charmingly
considerate to send you to look after me. I was desolated to think that
I should have to take such a long journey by myself."
"The pleasure is mine," said Blake, falling in quickly with the
atmosphere she had set. Nevertheless, he was not quite easy. He recalled
the troubles that had beset Waverley, and half regretted that he had not
brought his companion on the train with him.
"Smoke, if you like," she said, with a gracious wave of her hand. "I
know you are dying to do so. Then we can talk. Do you know, I have long
wished to have a talk with a real detective. Your work must be so
fascinating."
He took a cigarette case slowly from his pocket, and dangled it in his
hand. He had never before seen the Princess, but he was certain of her
identity.
"Indeed," he said grimly. "I thought you had met Mr. Foyle. In fact, I
believe that he afforded you some opportunity of seeing a portion of the
workings of our police system. Do you smoke? May I offer you a
cigarette?"
She selected one daintily.
"Thank you. But that was different. I don't think it quite nice of you
to refer to it. It was all a mistake. Mr. Foyle will tell you so, if
you ask him. Do detectives often make mistakes?"
Her air of refreshing innocence tickled Blake. He laughed.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "I made a mistake just now in coming on this
train alone."
She laughed musically in pure amusement.
"I believe the man is afraid of me," she said, addressing the ceiling.
Then more directly, "Why, what harm could a poor creature like myself do
to a great stalwart man like you? I should have thought you'd greater
sense."
"Common sense is my strong point," he parried.
"And therefore you are afraid," she laughed. "Come--Mr.--Mr.----"
"Smith--John Smith."
"Mr. John Smith, then. It's a good English name. I shan't do you any
harm. But if you like to lose sight of me when we reach Liverpool----"
"Well?"
"It would be worth £50 to you."
He shook his head. "I am afraid, Princess, you have a very poor opinion
of the London police. Besides, I told you just now that common sense was
my strong point."
She shrugged her shoulders for answer. The train droned on. They had
lunch together and chatted on like old friends. It was when they had
returned to their own compartment, and the train was nearing Liverpool,
that Blake found his cigarettes had run short. The Princess produced a
daintily-jewelled enamelled case.
"Won't you try one of mine?" she asked. "That is, if you care for
Egyptian."
He took one. What harm would there be in a cigarette? Yet, in half an
hour's time, when the train slowed into Lime Street Station, the
Princess descended to the platform alone. In his corner of the
compartment Blake slumbered stertorously.