lain his embarrassment and his nervous manner when he
at length rejoined the Queen.

There was a slight transformation in the lady whose dressing bag had
aided, evidently, a brisk toilet. Under her chin flowered out a snowy
bow of tulle, and she had swathed herself in the thick veil she had
worn when first boarding the train. Indicating her disguise to
Bulstrode, she said with her pretty accent: "I think it well to be
thus." And he agreed that it was well.

His own agitation as the other train rushed in, slowed and halted, was
scarcely less than hers, indeed perhaps greater, for Carmen-Magda, pale
and quiet, her handsome brown eyes fixed on the window-pane, gave no
sign of life, until after a series of jerks, jolts and bumps, they
slowly but certainly became part of a moving train, once more
undertaking its journey. Then Bulstrode, who stood determinedly in the
window, filled it up on the station side, giving her no chance to look
out had she wished to do so, nor did he think it needful to tell the
Queen what he saw: A distinguished-looking man in rough brown clothes,
and oh, the curious coincidence: a reddish-brown chrysanthemum in his
buttonhole. His Striking Resemblance was accompanied by another
gentleman--short and stout with military mustaches, and swarthy
complexion. The two men were gesticulating wildly together, and as the
train pulled away from them, Bulstrode turned about and faced the
little Queen.

She had again lifted her veil, and he thought her pallor natural; in
the momentary excitement her large eyes were fastened upon him with a
touching confidence that nearly made the soft-hearted imposter regret
the boldest act of his history.

"Are you sure," she asked him softly, "that this is the right train?"

The coquetry of her bow of snowy tulle, the debonnaire costume of brown
and green, her gray hat with its feathers, were pathetic to him--her
attire contrasted sadly with her pale face. She was to him like a
wilful child. Not more, he decided for the sixth time, than twenty
years old. She was like a paper queen out of a child's fairy book, all
but her anxious face. "She regrets," he joyfully caught at the thought
to arm himself and give himself right. "Poor little thing, she already
regrets."

Leaning forward, he suggested kindly:

"Can't your Majesty rest a little?"

As he spoke the hypocrite knew that in less time than it would take to
settle her they would bump into the station at We