As we pushed our way through the group, I fancied that it closed
around me ominously. The conductor said nothing, but led the way
without ceremony to the side of the berth.

"What's the matter?" I inquired. I was puzzled, but not
apprehensive. "Have you some of my things? I'd be thankful even
for my shoes; these are confoundedly tight."

Nobody spoke, and I fell silent, too. For one of the pillows had
been turned over, and the under side of the white case was streaked
with brownish stains. I think it was a perceptible time before I
realized that the stains were blood, and that the faces around were
filled with suspicion and distrust.

"Why, it--that looks like blood," I said vacuously. There was an
incessant pounding in my ears, and the conductor's voice came from
far off.

"It is blood," he asserted grimly.

I looked around with a dizzy attempt at nonchalance. "Even if it
is," I remonstrated, "surely you don't suppose for a moment that
I know anything about it!"

The amateur detective elbowed his way in. He had a scrap of
transparent paper in his hand, and a pencil.

"I would like permission to trace the stains," he began eagerly.
"Also"--to me--"if you will kindly jab your finger with a
pin--needle--anything--"