"If you don't keep out of this," the conductor said savagely, "I
will do some jabbing myself. As for you, sir--" he turned to me.
I was absolutely innocent, but I knew that I presented a typical
picture of guilt; I was covered with cold sweat, and the pounding
in my ears kept up dizzily. "As for you, sir--"

The irrepressible amateur detective made a quick pounce at the
pillow and pushed back the cover. Before our incredulous eyes he
drew out a narrow steel dirk which had been buried to the small
cross that served as a head.

There was a chorus of voices around, a quick surging forward of the
crowd. So that was what had scratched my hand! I buried the wound
in my coat pocket.

"Well," I said, trying to speak naturally, "doesn't that prove what
I have been telling you? The man who committed the murder belonged
to this berth, and made an exchange in some way after the crime.
How do you know he didn't change the tags so I would come back to
this berth?" This was an inspiration; I was pleased with it. "That's
what he did, he changed the tags," I reiterated.

There was a murmur of assent around. The doctor, who was standing
beside me, put his hand on my arm. "If this gentleman committed
this crime, and I for one feel sure he did not, then who is the
fellow who got away? And why did he go?"

"We have only one man's word for that," the conductor snarled.
"I've traveled some in these cars myself, and no one ever changed