containing my instructions. They--they relate to this man Ned Beaton
and the woman he expects on this train."

"Your instructions?" he echoed doubtfully. "You mean you have been
sent after these people on some criminal matter? You are a detective?"

There must have been a tone of distrust to his voice, for she turned
and faced him defiantly.

"No; not that. Listen: I am a newspaperwoman, a special writer on the
New York _Star_." She paused, her cheeks flushing with nervousness.
"It--it was very strange that I met you first of all, for--for it seems
that the case is of personal interest to you."

"To me! Why, that is hardly likely, if it originated in New York."

"It did"--she drew in a sharp breath--"for it originated in the murder
of Frederick Cavendish."

"The murder of Cavendish! He has been killed?"

"Yes; at least that is what every one believes, except possibly one
man--his former valet. His body was found lying dead on the floor of
his private apartment, the door of his safe open, the money and papers
missing. The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of murder on these
facts."

"And the murderer?"

"Left no clue; it was believed to be the work of a burglar."