Barraclough's mind was concentrated on finding a weak spot at which to attack and already a delicate idea was maturing. In the rack above his companion's head was his suitcase, the handle projecting outward. Apparently it was unusually heavy for Barraclough had noticed with what a resonant whack it hit the carriage cushions when thrown in through the window and also that it was only lifted to its present position with an effort. If that suitcase could be persuaded to fall on its owner's head it was reasonable to suppose the result would be anesthetic. And in Barraclough's hand was a crooked stick. The association of idea is obvious. "Going far?" came the pleasant enquiry. In common with all South Western Railway carriages, the wooden partitioning above the upholstery was decorated with choicely coloured views of cities and country-side. "Since there would appear to be no point in hiding anything from you," Barraclough replied, "there is a picture of my destination behind your head." "That's funny," said the man and, responding to natural curiosity, turned to examine the picture, while Barraclough embraced the opportunity to slip the crook of his stick through the handle of the bag and tug hard. But the bag was heavier than he had imagined. It scarcely moved and only by bracing his foot on the seat opposite was he able to upset its balance. Just a fraction of a second too soon the man turned. Conceivably he saw murder in Barraclough's eyes or else he was unusually quick at grasping a situation. He flashed his eyes upward at the moment the bag was toppling, realised it was too late to save himself, and dropped his head forward. He caught the weight of the bag on his massive shoulders and, as though it were a pillow, slewed sideways and heaved it straight on to Barraclough's chest. And Barraclough's lungs emptied like a burst balloon. Next instant he felt himself lifted into mid air as though he were a child. "I've a damn good mind to pitch you through the window," said the man. "I would, too, if I didn't reckon you were mad. As it is, I guess I'll stick you up in the luggage rack out of harm's way." And this he did without apparent effort. "Damn me!" he went on. "What's the game?" "The game," replied Barraclough, "isn't played out yet." Which was true, for in the tussle his overcoat had rolled up under his arms, the pistol pocket was clear, and a blue black automatic flashed dully in the man's face. "If either of us leaves this carriage I fancy it's going to be you." To do the man justice he betrayed more amazement than alarm. He backed away a pace and his hand travelled upward to the communicator. "If you touch that cable I'll put a bullet through your wrist," said Barraclough. "Sit down and attend to me." He obeyed, shaking his head perplexedly. "Damn me, if I can get the strength of it."