Mr. Jones buried himself in his book. For once, however, the narrative
failed to entertain him. Beautiful spies lavished their witchery in
vain; the sagacity of the hero left him cold.

Suddenly an atmosphere of unrest and agitation conveyed itself to
him. The train was slowing down in the darkness; the lady opposite
was leaning forward, her face pale, her whole attitude tense with
excitement. The train stopped; outside someone was walking along the
metals; there came the sound of a guttural remark.

The lady put her hand to her heart and, turning to the elderly
gentleman, gasped, "Doctor, that was his voice. They have tracked us."

The old man rose quietly and, opening the far door, stood waiting.

"But the child?" she cried with a sob.

"He must be left behind, Madame. There is less danger thus."

"But what am I to do?" She turned to Mr. Jones, looked at him steadily
and fixedly, and then, as if satisfied with what she read in him,
exclaimed, "You have a good heart. You must keep him. Do not let them
have him; too much depends upon it."

And before the astonished cashier had time to protest his
fellow-travellers had gone and he was alone with the child.

But not for long. Just as the train commenced to move again three men
entered the compartment; two appeared to be servants, but the third