"Suicide, is it, doctor?" I asked.

He stood erect, after drawing the bed-clothing over the face, and,
taking off his glasses, he wiped them slowly.

"No, it is not suicide," he announced decisively. "It is murder."

Of course, I had expected that, but the word itself brought a shiver.
I was just a bit dizzy. Curious faces through the car were turned
toward us, and I could hear the porter behind me breathing audibly.
A stout woman in negligee came down the aisle and querulously
confronted the porter. She wore a pink dressing-jacket and carried
portions of her clothing.

"Porter," she began, in the voice of the lady who had "dangled,"
"is there a rule of this company that will allow a woman to occupy
the dressing-room for one hour and curl her hair with an alcohol
lamp while respectable people haven't a place where they can hook
their--"

She stopped suddenly and stared into lower ten. Her shining pink
cheeks grew pasty, her jaw fell. I remember trying to think of
something to say, and of saying nothing at all. Then--she had
buried her eyes in the nondescript garments that hung from her arm
and tottered back the way she had come. Slowly a little knot of
men gathered around us, silent for the most part. The doctor was
making a search of the berth when the conductor elbowed his way
through, followed by the inquisitive man, who had evidently summoned
him. I had lost sight, for a time, of the girl in blue.