He was a traveler obviously dying of some dread disease.
He occupied compartment 22 on the third car back, and had his meals sent in and only at twilight did he rouse to come sit in the dining car surrounded by the false electric lights and the sound of crystal and women’s laughter.
He arrived this night, moving with a terrible slowness to sit across the aisle from this woman of some years, her bosom like a fortress, her brow serene, her eyes with a kindness that had mellowed with time.
There was a black medical bag at her side, and a thermometer tucked in her mannish lapel pocket The ghastly man’s paleness caused her left hand to crawl up along her lapel to touch the thermometer.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Miss Minerva Halliday.
The maître d’ was passing. She touched his elbow and nodded across the aisle. “Pardon, but where is that poor man going?”
“Calais and London, Madame. If God is willing.”
And he hurried off.
Minerva Halliday, her appetite gone, stared across at that skeleton made of snow.
The man and the cutlery laid before him seemed one. The knives, forks, and spoons jingled with a silvery cold sound. He listened, fascinated, as if to the sound of his inner soul as the cutlery crept, touched, chimed; a tin tinnabulation from another sphere. His hands lay in his lap like lonely pets, and when the train swerved around a long curve his body, mindless, swayed now this way, now that, toppling.
At which moment the train took a greater curve and knocked the silverware, cluttering. A woman at a far table, laughing, cried out:
“I don’t believe it!”
To which a man with a louder laugh shouted:
“Nor do I!”
This coincidence caused, in the ghastly passenger, a terrible melting. The doubting laughter had pierced his ears.
He visibly shrank. His eyes hollowed and one could almost imagine a cold vapor gasped from his mouth. Miss Minerva Halliday, shocked, leaned forward and put out one hand. She heard herself whisper:
“I believe!”
The effect was instantaneous.
The ghastly passenger sat up. Color returned to his white cheeks. His eyes glowed with a rebirth of fire. His head swiveled and he stared across the aisle at this miraculous woman with words that cured.
Blushing furiously, the old nurse with the great warm bosom caught hold, rose, and hurried off.
Not five minutes later, Miss Minerva Halliday heard the maître d’ hurrying along the corridor, tapping on doors, whispering. As he passed her open door, he glanced at her.
“Could it be that you are—”
“No,” she guessed, “not a doctor. But a registered nurse. Is it that old man in the dining car?”
“Yes, yes! Please, Madame, this way!” The ghastly man had been carried back to his own compartment.
Beaching it, Miss Minerva Halliday peered within.
And there the strange man lay strewn, his eyes wilted shut, his mouth a bloodless wound, the only life in him the joggle of his head as the train swerved.
My God, she thought, he’s dead!
Out loud she said, “I’ll call if I need you.”
The maître d’ went away.
Miss Minerva Halliday quietly shut the sliding door and turned to examine the dead man—for surely he was dea