seen, Theodoric queried to himself, and in any case what on
earth must she think of his present posture?

  ``I think I have caught a chill,'' he ventured
desperately.

  ``Really, I'm sorry,'' she replied.  ``I was just going to
ask you if you would open this window.''

  ``I fancy it's malaria,' he added, his teeth chattering
slightly, as much from fright as from a desire to support
his theory.

  ``I've got some brandy in my hold-all, if you'll kindly
reach it down for me,'' said his companion.

  ``Not for worlds---I mean, I never take anything for it,''
be assured her earnestly.

  ``I suppose you caught it in the Tropics?''

  Theodoric, whose acquaintance with the Tropics was limited
to an annual present of a chest of tea from an uncle in
Ceylon, felt that even the malaria was slipping from him.
Would it be possible, he wondered, to disclose the real
state of affairs to her in small instalments?

  ``Are you afraid of mice?'' he ventured, growing, if
possible, more scarlet in the face.

  ``Not unless they came in quantities, like those that ate
up Bishop Hatto.  Why do you ask?''

  ``I had one crawling inside my clothes just now,'' said
Theodoric in a voice that hardly seemed his own.  ``It was a
most awkward situation.''

  ``It must have been, if you wear your clothes at all
tight,'' she observed; ``but mice have strange ideas of
comfort.''

  ``I had to got rid of it while you were asleep,'' he
continued; then, with a gulp, he added, ``it was getting rid
of it that brought me to---to this.''

  ``Surely leaving off one small mouse wouldn't bring on a
chill,'' she exclaimed, with a levity that Theodoric
accounted abominable.

  Evidently she had detected something of his predicament,
and was enjoying his confusion.  All the blood in his body
seemed to have mobilized in one concentrated blush, and an
agony of abasement, worse than a myriad mice, crept up and
down over his soul.  And then, as reflection began to assert
itself, sheer terror took the place of humiliation.  With
every minute that passed the train was rushing nearer to the
crowded and bustling terminus where dozens of prying eyes
would be exchanged for the one paralyzing pair that watched
him from the further corner of the carriage.  There was one
slender despairing chance, which the next few minutes must
decide.  His fellow-traveller might relapse into a blessed
slumber.  But as the minutes throbbed by that chance ebbed
away.  The furtive glance which Theodoric stole at her from
time to time disclosed only an unwinking wakefulness.

  ``I think we must be getting near now,'' she presently
observed.

  Theodoric had already noted with growing terror the
recurring stacks of small, ugly dwellings that heralded the
journey's end.  The words acted as a signal.  Like a hunted
beast breaking cover and dashing madly towards some other
haven of momentary safety he threw aside his rug, and
struggled frantically into his dishevelled garments.  He was
conscious of dull suburban stations racing past the window,
of a choking, hammering sensation in his throat and heart,
and of an icy silence in that corner towards which he dared
not look.  Then as he sank back in his seat, clothed and
almost delirious, the train slowed down to a final crawl,
and the woman spoke.

  ``Would you be so kind,'' she asked, ``as to get me a
porter to put me into a cab? It's a shame to trouble you
when you're feeling unwell, but being blind makes one so
helpless at a railway station.''

[End of H.H.Munro's Reginald in Russia]
.