whether my pretty Austrian officer, whom I first saw eight years ago at the Salzburg railway station, is still alive, and whether he has jam, too? And whether he thinks of me as I do of him, and whether he remembers that Sunday afternoon when he put her, my Austrian love, in my railway carriage?

She was sitting there, looking out of the window. It was now a quarter of an hour since we had left Salzburg, and the train had got on its even, rapid pace that it would keep up for the afternoon.

I did not dare to speak to my fair Comtesse. This was the rank which my imagination had given her. If, when travelling, you do not start a conversation at once, you generally never will. So I fretted. I had nothing to read, not even a paper. I did not want to sleep, besides, I never could sleep on a train. As for her, she hardly moved.

Thus another quarter of an hour had passed, when the conductor, opening the door of the corridor, asked for our tickets. I could not help feeling surprised when I saw the man, for he looked somewhat like a twin brother of the little Frenchman. He was of the same size, had the same black hair, the same black moustache and pointed tuft of beard on his chin. It was so striking that my English brain, brought up chiefly on detective stories, smelt at once a mystery. I could not refrain from stepping out with him on to the corridor where, in order to make certain whether the little Frenchman and the conductor were but one person, I asked him what the next stop was. He answered and began chatting. It was quite another voice and, while my Frenchman spoke German only with great difficulty, this conductor gave me an example of the volubility with which the Viennese people speak their broad, good-humoured dialect. The mystery was only chance.

"A nice girl," said the man smiling and blinking with his eyes half closed in the direction of the Comtesse.

"Where is she travelling to?" I asked.

"Vienna," he answered. And then, raising his eyes with a matchmaking expression under his black eyebrows, "I travel the whole way with you," said he. "If you will, I'll try and leave you alone with her."

I understood. My backsheesh was soon handed over, whereupon—I suppose—that high-priest of the railway church mentally pronounced the decisive words which were to unite us for the duration of our journey.

I must say, however, that this matrimonial benediction took no immediate effect. For when I returned to my seat, I still had no courage to talk to my fair vis-à-vis.

She had not moved and was looking with desperate equanimity at the landscape that was galloping before her eyes.

I felt silly. I often do.

Like a child, I busied myself with the window strap. It was at that moment that I noticed the small white plate affixed to the door:

P. 3.33 was the number of the car, and C the number of the section. But P. C. were also the initials of my name. And, as I have not yet introduced myself to the reader, I take this opportunity of telling him (or her) that my name is Patrick Cooper, of London, son of Daniel Cooper and Co., Ltd., insurance brokers, (and Co. being quite a negligible quantity, while Ltd. is not).

I suppose that music and superstition must be of a very near relationship. Even now, although I am no longer a musician, but a Lance-Corporal (all honour to me!) my superstition survives. For instance: I am a passionate hunter of rats. Well, whenever I miss one, you may be sure that the next lot of bacon we get is bad.

Therefore it will be admitted that the discovery of my initials on the plate of the carriage door could not but fill me with a certain awe. Yet, not with awe alone! Also with curiosity. What was the meaning of 3.33?

I spent a few minutes over this highly interesting riddle, until another thought came, namely: If I were not soon to engage in conversation with the Comtesse, I should have spent my backsheesh in vain.

I looked at my watch. It was half-past three, which meant that I had already lost fifty minutes. All right! The figures 3.33 were to have a meaning. If in three minutes, at 3.33, nothing happened, I would talk. The weather might afford quite a suitable topic, if not new nor in any way sensational, so at least not at all offensive. I accordingly prepared myself. Two minutes.—One minute and a half.—One minute.—A half minute....

The Westinghouse brake underneath the car made itself heard with a grating, harsh shriek, there was a shock that ran through the train, and at 3.33 exactly the Comtesse was pitched from her seat into my arms, while one of my bags came to the floor and the train to a sudden halt. In the next second, however, a terrific dash made it move backwards, and we were both thrown from my seat into her's.

"What is it?" asked the fair one, after we had struggled out of our mutual embrace.

Outside many people began to cry all at once and hurried footsteps were heard.

"There is something wrong," answered I.

There was, indeed. On that particular spot the line, for some technical reason, was only single tracked, and railway smashes were therefore not altogether avoidable.

The Comtesse wanted to alight at once, but I held her back.

"What for?" I asked. "Are you not all right here? The worst is over. If there is anything to be seen, it must be most unpleasant."

She settled down again in her seat. Her fright had apparently been great, to judge from her paleness and from the way she looked, wide eyed, at me. Out of the bag which had tumbled down from the net, I took a flask of brandy and a little goblet.

"Drink this," I said, offering her a few drops.

She accepted, and then:

"How phlegmatic you English are!" said she. "Look at these people...."

The excitement outside was incredible. Strange voices were heard. Passengers and railway servants were running up and down in a most foolish and useless fashion. Two gentlemen were shouting at each other; they were in a hot discussion about what was to be done. One woman was kneeling and praying hysterically at the foot of a telegraph post which she probably was mistaking for a way-side cross. And everybody was talking, crying. It was all the more ridiculous, as there had, in fact, happened nothing of importance. Both engines and the luggage vans were badly damaged, but nobody was injured. If I want to imagine, what it means nowadays when I read: "Austrians defeated"—I have only to remember this scene of panic and disorder, and I know at once.

Nothing, so to say, had happened; but the men, having all lost their presence of mind, behaved like sheep, looking to each other, appealing for help, while most of the women were weeping, pallid, with cadaverous lips.

In England everybody would have been quiet, perhaps a little annoyed, perhaps amused, but in any case not a bit frightened. That was why the Comtesse had called me phlegmatic. I hoped that it was my calmness which had made her guess my English nationality: I was too proud of my German to suspect that my pronounciation had betrayed me.

Anyhow, the ice was broken, and we were now chatting comfortably. Slowly the excitement of the other passengers subsided and a period of silence followed. People went back into their carriages. Even the little conductor had disappeared; he was walking to the next signal-box, where he would telephone for help. The wait seemed interminable.

The Comtesse began to fidget.

"You still look a little pale," said I. "Do you feel well?"