When the train started once more, and dinner was announced by a violent ringing of bells, Katherine went along to it much relieved in mind. Her vis-á-vis to-night was of an entirely different kind—a small man, distinctly foreign in appearance, with a rigidly waxed moustache and an egg-shaped head which he carried rather on one side. Katherine had taken in a book to dinner with her. She found the little man's eyes fixed upon it with a kind of twinkling amusement.
"I see, Madame, that you have a Roman Policier. You are fond of such things?"
"They amuse me," Katherine admitted.
The little man nodded with the air of complete understanding.
"They have a good sale always, so I am told. Now why is that, eh, Mademoiselle? I ask it of you as a student of human nature—why should that be?"
Katherine felt more and more amused.
"Perhaps they give one the illusion of living an exciting life," she suggested.
He nodded gravely.
"Yes; there is something in that."
"Of course, one knows that such things don't really happen," Katherine was continuing, but he interrupted her sharply.
"Sometimes, Mademoiselle! Sometimes! I who speak to you—they have happened to me."
She threw him a quick, interested glance.
"Some day, who knows, you might be in the thick of things," he went on. "It is all chance."
