"You have people--friends to meet you ?" For an instant the look that had possessed the boy's face during the journey--the look of suspicion akin to fear--leaped up, but on the moment it was conquered.

The well-poised head was thrown back, and again the eyes met Blake's in a deliberate gaze.
"Why do you ask, monsieur ?" The words were clipped, the tone proud and a little cold.
Another man might have hesitated to reply truthfully, but Blake was an Irishman and used to self-expression.
"I ask," he said, simply, "because you are so young." A new expression--a new daring--swept the boy's mobile face.

A spirit of raillery gleamed in his eyes, and he smiled for the first time.
"How old, monsieur ?" The question, the smile touched Blake anew.

He laughed involuntarily with a sudden sense of friendliness.
"Sixteen ?--seventeen ?" The boy, still smiling, shook his head.
"Guess again, monsieur." Blake's interest flashed out.

Here, in the gray station, in this damp hour of dawn, he had touched something magnetic--some force that drew and held him.