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But Blue Jeans, who had landed lightly on the gravel, saw what Devereau had missed. He saw that Tweed-Suit was afraid that she was numbed with fear. His single back-hand thrust sent Devereau spinning under a truck. "Your train?" "Yes." "Give me your bag." She obeyed him. They had told her that the train did not wait very long. His hand found her arm, a different touch than Devereau's.
And she had led him a pretty chase but now . . . he was very sure of himself . . . How Little-Tweed-Suit a girl like Tweed-Suit came there upon the station platform of Estabrook is a long story; and it is not entirely hers or ours. Therefore only the briefest part, for this tale's sake, shall be set down here.
"I I want to get off," she blurted. The porter shook his head; he had expected better from her, but all women were riddles. "We's rolling now, ma'am," he answered. "No stop for two hundred miles." That night Cecille Manners Tweed-Suit will no longer serve lay in her berth and watched the stars reel by. She had misjudged the west and come away too soon; she knew that now.
The private detective was wearing a worn tweed-suit and soft hat, which had the effect of making a considerable alteration in his appearance. He was about to enter the eating-house, but stopped at the sight of Caldew looking in the window, and advanced to shake hands with him. "Thinking of dining here, Caldew?" he asked. "Yes," replied Caldew. "It seems a quiet place."
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