le. His
circulation was agreeably quickened. How surprisingly fast this
nymph-like creature could get over the ground, and that gracefully,
moreover, rather in the style of a lissome, long-limbed youth than in
that of a woman.

"Rare? I know it," she answered, the words coming short and sharply.
"But I accept the risk. A thousand to one the book remains shut
forever."

"And I, meanwhile, am not too proud to pass the time of day with the
second best, and take refuge in the accumulated patience of innumerable
asses."

And, behind them, the express train thundered into the station.

CHAPTER II

TELLING HOW, ONCE AGAIN, KATHERINE CALMADY LOOKED ON HER SON

The bulletin received at Turin was sufficiently disquieting. Richard
had had a relapse. And when at Bologna, just as the train was starting,
General Ormiston entered the compartment occupied by the two ladies,
there was that in his manner which made Miss St. Quentin lay aside the
magazine she was reading and, rising silently from her place opposite
Lady Calmady, go out on to the narrow passageway of the long
sleeping-car. She was very close to the elder woman in the bonds of a
dear and intimate friendship, yet hardly close enough, so she judged,
to intrude her presence if evil-tidings were to be told. A man going
into battle might look, so she thought, as Roger Ormiston looked
now--very stern and strained. It was more fitting to leave the brother
and sister alone together for a little space.

At the far end of the passageway the servants were grouped--Clara,
comely of face and of person, neat notwithstanding the demoralisation
of feminine attire incident to prolonged travel. Winter, the Brockhurst
butler, clean-shaven, gray-headed, suggestive of a distinguished
Anglican ecclesiastic in mufti. Miss St. Quentin's lady's-maid,
Faulstich by name, a North-Country woman, angular of person and of
bearing, loyal of heart. And Zimmermann, the colossal German-Swiss
courier, with his square, yellow beard and hair _en brosse_. An air of
discouragement pervaded the party, involving even the polyglot
conductor of the _waggon-lits_, a small, quick, sandy-complexioned,
young fellow of uncertain nationality, with a gold band round his
peaked cap. He respected this family which could afford to take a
private railway-carriage half across Europe. He shared their anxieties.
And these were evidently great. Clara wept. The old butler's mouth
twitched, and his slightly pendulou