She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. Wild never was the associate of thieves. Heard voices. Remarking that they struck off at a turning on the left, he took the same road, and soon found himself on Paddington-Green.
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