was not on canvas, but on the glossy, varnished panel of a luxurious
sleeping-car. He shook his head angrily and blinked his eyes again and
again, to prevent their seeing, seated together in the open window above
this panel, the two people he knew were there, gloved and habited for
the night's journey, waiting for the train to start.



"Very much to my surprise," he found himself saying to Alice, watching
her nervously as she laid the supper-table, "I find I must go to Albany
tonight. That is, it isn't absolutely necessary, for that matter, but
I think it may easily turn out to be greatly to my advantage to go.
Something has arisen--I can't speak about it as yet--but the sooner I
see the Bishop about it the better. Things like that occur in a man's
life, where boldly striking out a line of action, and following it up
without an instant's delay, may make all the difference in the world
to him. Tomorrow it might be too late; and, besides, I can be home the
sooner again."

Alice's face showed surprise, but no trace of suspicion. She spoke with
studied amiability during the meal, and deferred with such unexpected
tact to his implied desire not to be questioned as to the mysterious
motives of the journey, that his mood instinctively softened and warmed
toward her, as they finished supper.

He smiled a little. "I do hope I shan't have to go on tomorrow to New
York; but these Bishops of ours are such gad-abouts one never knows
where to catch them. As like as not Sanderson may be down in New York,
on Book-Concern business or something; and if he is, I shall have to
chase him up. But, after all, perhaps the trip will do me good--the