head of the train.

"I believe he is an officer," said Mrs. Rayner to her sister. "Who else
would be apt to know about the movement of the troops? Did you notice
how gentle his manner was?--and he never smiled: he has such a sad face.
Yet he can't be an officer, or he would have made himself known to us
long ago."

"Is there no name on the satchel?" asked Miss Travers, with pardonable
curiosity. "He has an interesting face,--not handsome." And a dreamy
look came into her deep eyes. She was thinking, no doubt, of a dark,
oval, _distingué_ face with raven hair and moustache. The youth in the
travelling-suit was not tall, like Steven,--not singularly, romantically
handsome, like Steven. Indeed, he was of less interest to her than to
her married sister.

Mrs. Rayner could see no name on the satchel,--only two initials; and
they revealed very little.

"I have half a mind to peep at the fly-leaf of that book," she said. "He
walked just like a soldier: but there isn't anything there to indicate
what he is," she continued, with a doubtful glance at the items
scattered about the now vacant section. "Why isn't that porter here? He
ought to know who people are."

As though to answer her request, in came the porter, dishevelled and
breathless. He made straight for the satchel they had been scrutinizing,
and opened it without ceremony. Both ladies regarded this proceeding
with natural astonishment, and Mrs. Rayner was about to interfere and
question his right to search the luggage of passengers, when the man