Under cover of this disturbance, the dark man disappeared into the train.
Now here occurs a random bit of information of which nobody made much. Two of the passengers professed to behold something. These two were M. Canard, one of the most fiery of the French journalists, and his companion, Mademoiselle Lulu, who played a harp. They said that by one pale light on the edge of the pier, they had seen a man standing motionless at the line of the smoky whitish water. He had not been on the boat. He merely stood there, his cloak blown around him, leaning on a cane, and one of his hands clasped over the cane held a cigarette. The next moment he vanished, almost as though he had jumped into the water.
In the train, the midmost compartment was occupied by the man who was to die. That was number four. In number one were M. Canard and Mademoiselle Lulu. In number two, Mr. Septimus Depping and Miss Brunhilde Mertz. Number three was vacant. In number five, Sir John Landervorne. In number six, Villeford, the proprietor of a café in Montmarte of not too good reputation. In number seven Mr. Charles Woodcock, a traveling salesman from America. Number eight was vacant.
A drowsy hush settled on the train when it started, a drugged chill of spirits and bodies, for the heating system would not work. The blue night-lamps flickered a little in the draughty corridor. At one end of this corridor, by the door, stood Si John Landervorne, tall and gray, leaning against the railing and smoking. The train swayed ever so little in a creaking rush: that was the only noise. At the other end of the corridor, from the second of the two doors opening from the car on that side, appeared the train-guard.
Somebody screamed. It was Mademoiselle Lulu. She had had an altercation with M. Canard, and in
