porter came.

"Did you ring, sir?" he asked, poking his head through the curtains
obsequiously. McKnight objects that nobody can poke his head through
a curtain and be obsequious. But Pullman porters can and do.

"No," I snapped. "It rang itself. What in thunder do you mean by
exchanging my valise for this one? You'll have to find it if you
waken the entire car to do it. There are important papers in that
grip."

"Porter," called a feminine voice from an upper berth near-by.
"Porter, am I to dangle here all day?"

"Let her dangle," I said savagely. "You find that bag of mine."

The porter frowned. Then he looked at me with injured dignity.
"I brought in your overcoat, sir. You carried your own valise."

The fellow was right! In an excess of caution I had refused to
relinquish my alligator bag, and had turned over my other traps
to the porter. It was clear enough then. I was simply a victim
of the usual sleeping-car robbery. I was in a lather of
perspiration by that time: the lady down the car was still
dangling and talking about it: still nearer a feminine voice was
giving quick orders in French, presumably to a maid. The porter
was on his knees, looking under the berth.

"Not there, sir," he said, dusting his knees. He was visibly more
cheerful, having been absolved of responsibility. "Reckon it was