of the berth and hoped the snorer would choke to death. He had
considerable vitality, however; he withstood one shock after another
and survived to start again with new vigor. In desperation I found
some cigarettes and one match, piled my blankets over my grip, and
drawing the curtains together as though the berth were still occupied,
I made my way to the vestibule of the car.

I was not clad for dress parade. Is it because the male is so
restricted to gloom in his every-day attire that he blossoms into
gaudy colors in his pajamas and dressing-gowns? It would take a Turk
to feel at home before an audience in my red and yellow bathrobe, a
Christmas remembrance from Mrs. Klopton, with slippers to match.

So, naturally, when I saw a feminine figure on the platform, my
first instinct was to dodge. The woman, however, was quicker than
I; she gave me a startled glance, wheeled and disappeared, with a
flash of two bronze-colored braids, into the next car.

Cigarette box in one hand, match in the other, I leaned against the
uncertain frame of the door and gazed after her vanished figure.
The mountain air flapped my bath-robe around my bare ankles, my one
match burned to the end and went out, and still I stared. For I
had seen on her expressive face a haunting look that was horror,
nothing less. Heaven knows, I am not psychological. Emotions have
to be written large before I can read them. But a woman in trouble
always appeals to me, and this woman was more than that. She was
in deadly fear.

If I had not been afraid of being ridiculous, I would have followed
her. But I fancied that the apparition of a man in a red and yellow