Even in the tunnels I had no encouragement to turn my head round.
This was bad enough, but it would have been worse had it not happened that, in craning my head and neck out of the window, I caught sight, in the corner of the carriage--next to mine, of half of the back of a head which I felt sure I knew.

It belonged, in fact, to Michael McCrane, and a partial turn of his face left no doubt on the matter.

I had run my man down already! I smiled to myself as I contemplated the unconscious nape of that neck and recalled the gibes of the commercial traveller and the uncomfortable stare of the man in the corner.
What should I do?
The train would stop for two minutes at Bletchley, and not again until we reached Rugby.

Should I lay my hand on his shoulder at the first place or the second?
I wished I could have dared to retire into my carriage and consult my timetable about trains back.

But the consciousness of the honeymoon glare at my back glued me to the window.