"Tickets!" The head was gone; not alone that, strangely gone. How? Glover could not have told. It was _gone_. The Pintsch burned dim; the Teton song crooned through the ventilators; the wheels of the Lalla Rookh struck muffled at the fish-plates; the curtains of Section Eleven swung slowly in and out of the berth--but the head was not there. A creepy feeling touched his back; his first impulse was to ignore the incident, go into the stateroom and lie down. Then he thought he might have alarmed the passenger in Eleven when he had first entered. Yet there was, officially at least, no passenger in Eleven; plainly there was nothing to do but to call the conductor. He went forward. O'Brien was sorting his collections in the smoking-room of the next car. Raz Brown, awake--nominally, at least--sat by, reading his dream-book. "Is this the Lalla Rookh porter?" asked Glover. O'Brien nodded. "Who's your passenger in Eleven back there?" demanded Glover, turning to the darky. "Me?" stammered Raz Brown. "Who's your fare in Eleven in Lalla Rookh?" "My fare? Why, I ain't got nair 'a fare in Lalla Rookh. She's dead, boss." "You've got a woman passenger in Eleven. What are you talking about? What's the matter with you?" Raz Brown's eyes rolled marvellously. "'Fore God, dere ain't nobody dere ez I knows on, Mr. O'Brien," protested the surprised porter, getting up. "There's a woman in Eleven, Billy," said Glover. "Come on," exclaimed O'Brien, turning to the porter. "She may be a spotter. Let's see." Raz Brown walked back reluctantly, Conductor O'Brien leading. Into the Lalla Rookh, dark and quiet, around the smoking-room, down the aisle, and facing Eleven; there the Pintsch light dimly burned, the draperies slowly swayed in front of the darkened berth. Raz Brown gripped the curtains preliminarily. "Tickets, ma'am." There was a heavy pause. "Tickets!" No response. "C'nduct'h wants youh tickets, ma'am." The silence could be cut with an axe. Raz Brown parted the curtains, peered in, opened them wider, peered farther in; pushed the curtains back with both hands. The berth was empty. Raz looked at Conductor O'Brien. O'Brien grasped the curtains himself. The upper berth hung closed above. The lower, made up, lay untouched--the pillows fresh, the linen sheets folded back, Pullmanwise, over the dark blanket. The porter looked at Glover. "See foh y'se'f." Glover was impatient. "She's somewhere about the car," he exclaimed, "search it." Raz Brown went through the Lalla Rookh from vestibule to vestibule: it was as empty as a ceiling.