IN A SLEEPING-CAR The night express from Paris to Narbonne and the Spanish frontier was due to leave the Quai d'Orsay station at ten.

But three-quarters of an hour before that time the platform was already crowded, and many of the seats occupied.

Hillyard walked down the steps a little before half-past nine with the latest of the evening papers in his hand.
"You have engaged your seat, monsieur," the porter asked, who was carrying Hillyard's kit-bag.
"Yes," said Martin absently.

He was thinking that on the boulevards the newsboys might now be crying a later edition of the papers than that which he held, an edition with still more details.

He saw them surrounded in the darkened street by quiet, anxious groups.
"Will you give me your ticket, monsieur ?" the porter continued, and as Hillyard looked at him vacantly, "the ticket for your seat." Hillyard roused himself.
"I beg your pardon.