He was not a man to forget. Big, handsome, muscular, clean and trim, he had all the snap of the smart New Yorker. Evidently he went to good tailors and he paid for dressing. He raised his ten-dollar Stetson with an air of class. “Miss Durrance!” The girl gave a start and coloured hotly. “Don’t remember me, eh, Miss Durrance?” It was clear that she didn’t. But he remembered her, and the calm enforcement of his knowledge in a tone near the familiar flecked the girl’s cheek with a picturesque confusion. “Can’t say I do.” At the awkward answer his eyes twinkled into a slow, bright smile. “Myself, I never forget a face or a name.” The voice sounded oddly familiar, but she could not recall it. Not able to place this man, the effort to do so teased her forehead into a frown. “My job, you see, to remember folks.” She half resented the cool laugh. “Not sure I want to remember everybody.” “I’ll say not. Pikers good and plenty don’t want to remember me.” His tone was jocular, but there was something in it beyond mere banter. Mame Durrance realised suddenly that she had taken a strong dislike to the man opposite. He realised it, too. The breadth of his smile became aggressive. As her eyes met it they received a challenge which they were too proud to accept. She withdrew them quickly and looked ostentatiously away through the carriage window. Even the English scene, as much as was visible, could not divert her mind from a gentle snigger that stole upon her ear. Whoever this man was she hoped he would go. But he showed not a sign. Settling into the opposite corner, he sprawled his long legs, brushing her knees as he did so, and finally crossed them. And then, past master of the art of making himself offensive, he began to hum softly, but in a way to keep in the middle of her consciousness. “Miss Durrance.” The voice was mild but half a sneer was in it. Somehow “it got her goat” to have his conversation thrust upon her after she had taken pains to let him know that she had no use for it. Anger made her eyes sparkle. “You quit,” she said. “Beat it.” Rude, certainly, but she meant it to be. But in that art, too, he had nothing to learn. “Now, then, Miss Durrance, come off it.” His laugh was hateful. One outstanding detail of the compartment there was, which the sharp-eyed traveller had already noted. A metal disc fixed below the luggage rack was within reach. It was adorned by the words, “To communicate with the Attendant, pull the handle.” On the spur of the moment she half turned and raised her hand. But the voice of the man opposite grew instantly so full of menace that she felt a little frightened. “Can that, Miss Durrance, or I’ll have to make it hot for you.” II