"Sure, a slow train's tiresome," agreed Van Blarcom. "Specially if
you're not feeling overpleased with life anyway," he added, with a
knowing smile.

An angry answer rose to my lips, but the Mont Cenis tunnel opportunely
enveloped us, and in the dark half-hour transit that followed I regained
my self-control. It was not worth while, I decided, to quarrel with the
fellow, to break his head or to give him the chance of breaking mine.
After all, I thought low-spiritedly, what right had I to look down on
him? We were pot and kettle, indistinguishably black. It was true that
he had perjured himself upon the liner; but so, in spirit if not in
words, had I!

Thus reflecting, I saw the train emerge from the tunnel, felt it jar
to a standstill in the station of Modane, and, in obedience to staccato
French outcries on the platform, alighted in the frontier town. Followed
by Van Blarcom and preceded by our porters, I strolled in leisurely
fashion towards the customs shed. The air was clear, chilly,
invigorating; snowy peaks were thick and near. And the scene was
picturesque, dotted as it was with mounted bayonets and blue territorial
uniforms--reminders that boundary lines were no longer jests and that
strangers might not enter France unchallenged in time of war.

Van Blarcom's elbow at this juncture nudged me sharply.

"Say, Mr. Bayne," he was whispering, "look over there, will you? What do
you know about that?"

I looked indifferently. Then blank dismay took possession of me. Across
the shed, just visible between rows of trunks piled mountain high, stood