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when, at the end of the evening, I returned to my stateroom and found that looped across my newly opened bed, I felt again that prick of uneasiness, almost illness—so that I sat down and once more investigated the whole of the border. However, I found nothing.
    During the next few days Victorine made no more excuses of ill health but apparently shared my delight in watching the unrolling country—sometimes from the observation platform, sometimes through the salon windows. We always spoke English at her request, she insisting that I correct any expressions she used that might sound odd or strange. In addition she had Amélie bring a number of fashion magazines, apparently brought from France, andthe three of us (for Mrs. Deaves displayed as much animation over these) made choices from their colored plates. It was Mrs. Deaves who assured us that San Francisco was no raw country town, but a city which possessed shops easily comparable to those of Paris, in reality some staffed by one-time Parisians.
    A large section of that city was French in sympathy and blood. Immigrants, some of noble families, had been among the first gold seekers. She had laughingly said that it was no secret today that counts had been among wharf laborers when those golden dreams had been dashed, and that others of the bluest blood had peddled oranges and cigars in the streets. There existed a French newspaper and a theatre.
    As for shops—well, there was the Ville de Paris, named for a ship from whose decks a fine cargo had been auctioned off in 1850. There was also the silk shop of Belloc Frères, Madame Oulif’s bonnet-selling establishment. No Frenchwoman, she assured Victorine, need believe herself an exile in San Francisco.
    And Victorine listened, her eyes shining. It was plain that such talk was fast reconciling her to her new home. But it was that very night that my complacency was shattered.
    Our car was dropped from the train which had brought us thus far, left in a freight yard to await the second one to which it would be attached for the rest of the trip. Mr. Sauvage warned us—Mrs. Deaves reinforcing that warning with the strict tone of a chaperone—that while we were so situated, we should retire early to our staterooms where the windows would be completely curtained. There could be the curious who would seek to peer in.
    I was writing a journal letter which I had promised Madam Ashley and had just reached out to dip my pen in the inkwell of my traveling desk when I was startled by a sound. It might have been caused by someone scratching with a stick along the outside of my window. It came the second time, impatiently, as if demanding my attention. Remembering the warnings, I had no intention of lookingout, perhaps to face on the other side of the pane some befuddled drunk.
    A third scratching—then a low whistle. I had set down my desk and now I strained to hear. For that tune I knew. Only this morning Victorine had amused us by whistling a series of birdlike notes she said had been taught her in France.
    That man—Madam Ashley’s warning, Alain Sauvage’s letter—could the rejected suitor have followed the girl, be out there now in the night striving so to attract her attention? He might well have mistaken the position of her stateroom. I must find some vantage point from which I could see who was there.
    The lamps in the corridor had been turned very low. I hurried through the half-gloom to the dining salon—to the door at its end. That was heavy but not locked and I pushed it open far enough to step on the small platform. From there I would look back along the side of the car.
    I was right! A shadow by the shaded window. But the figure was moving—toward Victorine’s stateroom. While from there came a sudden gleam of brighter light. The curtain within had been moved.
    Gathering my skirts, I sped at a pace far from dignified back the length of the car to the door of the master stateroom where I rapped urgently. Mr. Sauvage