Ziegler, he felt sure, would have grasped the position to a nicety, and would use every device in his apparently limitless _repertoire_ to give him his quietus before Leonie’s father set foot on shore. It might well be that another attempt would be made on him before he reached the sheltering zone of Prior’s Tarrant, wherein General Sadgrove had promised him safety. His reflections were cut short by the slowing down of the train for the stoppage at Kentish Town, and the Duke’s sensations at that moment hardly presaged a comfortable journey for him, brief though it would be. The compartment was labeled "reserved," it was true, and the guard had been tipped to see that the legend was respected, but that stood for little when people of the Ziegler type were on the move, and he looked forward with dread to the future stoppages if his heart was to thump like this. Which is a study in the quality of _fear_, for Beaumanoir was of the kind that leads cavalry charges to visible and certain death with gay recklessness. The present trouble passed, however, for the guard hovered round the carriage and gave no chance to invaders, who in any case would have had some difficulty in effecting an entrance, as the door was locked. The train sped on again, out into the country now, through the balmy summer night, and Beaumanoir breathed more freely. One of the dreaded stoppages was notched off the list. So, too, were Hendon and Mill Hill safely negotiated, and Beaumanoir was able to contemplate the slackened speed for Elstree with greater equanimity. As before, the guard’s portly form loomed large outside the compartment the moment the train stopped, and so doubtless would have remained had not a loud, imperious voice on the platform summoned him to a divided duty. "Here, guard! What are you about there? Hurry up now, and open this door!" came the choleric command. With a deprecatory glance at the Duke’s carriage the guard perforce hurried off, and Beaumanoir peered out of the window after him. The official had gone to the assistance of a tall, well-groomed gentleman, who, with an air of irritable importance, was fumbling with the door-handle of a first-class compartment some way along the train. The traveler was of the type that secures the immediate respect of railway servants—dressed in brand new creaseless clothes, every immaculate pocket of which suggested the jingle of half-sovereigns. A man carrying a yellow hatbox and a rug lurked deferentially behind the magnate and cast reproachful glances at the guard, who was now thoroughly alive to his opportunities and opened the door with a flourish. The tall man, whom Beaumanoir took for a brother duke, or at least a director of the line, stepped with dignity into the compartment; the menial handed in the hatbox and rugs, and sought a second-class carriage; the guard waved his lamp, and the train moved on.