The Rome Express | Page 2

where the uncomfortable superstition prevails that every one who can
be reasonably suspected of a crime is held to be guilty of that crime
until his innocence is clearly proved.
All those six passengers and the porter were now brought within the
category of the accused. They were all open to suspicion; they, and
they alone, for the murdered man had been seen alive at Laroche, and
the fell deed must have been done since then, while the train was in
transit, that is to say, going at express speed, when no one could leave
it except at peril of his life.
"Deuced awkward for us!" said the tall English general, Sir Charles
Collingham by name, to his brother the parson, when he had reëntered
their compartment and shut the door.
"I can't see it. In what way?" asked the Reverend Silas Collingham, a
typical English cleric, with a rubicund face and square-cut white
whiskers, dressed in a suit of black serge, and wearing the professional
white tie.
"Why, we shall be detained, of course; arrested, probably--certainly
detained. Examined, cross-examined, bully-ragged--I know something
of the French police and their ways."
"If they stop us, I shall write to the Times" cried his brother, by
profession a man of peace, but with a choleric eye that told of an angry
temperament.

"By all means, my dear Silas, when you get the chance. That won't be
just yet, for I tell you we're in a tight place, and may expect a good deal
of worry." With that he took out his cigarette-case, and his match-box,
lighted his cigarette, and calmly watched the smoke rising with all the
coolness of an old campaigner accustomed to encounter and face the
ups and downs of life. "I only hope to goodness they'll run straight on
to Paris," he added in a fervent tone, not unmixed with apprehension.
"No! By jingo, we're slackening speed--."
"Why shouldn't we? It's right the conductor, or chief of the train, or
whatever you call him, should know what has happened."
"Why, man, can't you see? While the train is travelling express, every
one must stay on board it; if it slows, it is possible to leave it."
"Who would want to leave it?"
"Oh, I don't know," said the General, rather testily. "Any way, the
thing's done now."
The train had pulled up in obedience to the signal of alarm given by
some one in the sleeping-car, but by whom it was impossible to say.
Not by the porter, for he seemed greatly surprised as the conductor
came up to him.
"How did you know?" he asked.
"Know! Know what? You stopped me."
"I didn't."
"Who rang the bell, then?"
"I did not. But I'm glad you've come. There has been a crime--murder."
"Good Heavens!" cried the conductor, jumping up on to the car, and
entering into the situation at once. His business was only to verify the
fact, and take all necessary precautions. He was a burly, brusque,
peremptory person, the despotic, self-important French official, who

knew what to do--as he thought--and did it without hesitation or
apology.
"No one must leave the car," he said in a tone not to be misunderstood.
"Neither now, nor on arrival at the station."
There was a shout of protest and dismay, which he quickly cut short.
"You will have to arrange it with the authorities in Paris; they can alone
decide. My duty is plain: to detain you, place you under surveillance till
then. Afterwards, we will see. Enough, gentlemen and madame"--
He bowed with the instinctive gallantry of his nation to the female
figure which now appeared at the door of her compartment. She stood
for a moment listening, seemingly greatly agitated, and then, without a
word, disappeared, retreating hastily into her own private room, where
she shut herself in.
Almost immediately, at a signal from the conductor, the train resumed
its journey. The distance remaining to be traversed was short; half an
hour more, and the Lyons station, at Paris, was reached, where the bulk
of the passengers--all, indeed, but the occupants of the
sleeper--descended and passed through the barriers. The latter were
again desired to keep their places, while a posse of officials came and
mounted guard. Presently they were told to leave the car one by one,
but to take nothing with them. All their hand-bags, rugs, and
belongings were to remain in the berths, just as they lay. One by one
they were marched under escort to a large and bare waiting-room,
which had, no doubt, been prepared for their reception.
Here they took their seats on chairs placed at wide intervals apart, and
were peremptorily forbidden to hold any communication with each
other, by word or gesture. This order was enforced by a fierce-looking
guard in blue