THE PORTER. Yes, sah.

MR. ROBERTS. You wouldn't feel justified in looking?

THE PORTER. I couldn't, sah; I couldn't, indeed.

MR. ROBERTS (reaching his left hand toward THE PORTER'S, and pressing a
half dollar into his instantly responsive palm). But there's nothing to
prevent _my_ looking if I feel perfectly sure of the bonnet?

THE PORTER. N-no, sah.

MR. ROBERTS. All right.

[THE PORTER retires to the end of the car, and resumes the work of
polishing the passengers' boots. After an interval of quiet, MR. ROBERTS
rises, and, looking about him with what he feels to be melodramatic
stealth, approaches the suspected berth. He unloops the curtain with a
trembling hand, and peers ineffectually in; he advances his head further
and further into the darkened recess, and then suddenly dodges back
again, with THE CALIFORNIAN hanging to his neckcloth with one hand.]

THE CALIFORNIAN (savagely). What do you want?

MR. ROBERTS (struggling and breathless). I--I--I want my wife.

THE CALIFORNIAN. Want your wife! Have _I_ got your wife?

MR. ROBERTS. No--ah--that is--ah, excuse me--I thought you _were_ my