CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM


I have often remarked in life that there are days when some benevolent
deity seems to be guiding one's every action. On such days, do what you
will, you cannot go wrong. As the Berlin train bumped thunderously over
the culverts spanning the canals between the tall, grey houses of
Rotterdam and rushed out imperiously into the plain of windmills and
pollards beyond, I reflected that this must be my good day, so kindly
had some fairy godmother shepherded my footsteps since I had left the
café.

So engrossed had I been, indeed, in the great enterprise on which I was
embarked, that my actions throughout the morning had been mainly
automatic. Yet how uniformly had they tended to protect me! I had bought
my ticket in advance; I had given my overcoat and bag to a porter that I
now knew to have been my saviour in disguise; I had sallied forth from
the station and thus given him an opportunity for safe converse with me.
The omens were good: I could trust my luck to-day, I felt, and, greatly
comforted, I began to look about me.

I found myself, the only occupant, in a first-class carriage. On the
window was plastered a notice, in Dutch and German, to the effect that
the carriage was reserved. Suddenly I thought of my bag and overcoat.