Appleby's Answer Read Free

spotted her identity. He was a gentleman. He wouldn’t do just that.
    And now the situation developed. The elderly man began to evince certain small signs of physical discomfort characteristic of elderly men during the later stages of a railway journey. He shifted slightly in his seat. He discernibly estimated his distance from the door giving on the corridor. He equally discernibly studied Miss Pringle’s knees and feet – not lasciviously, but from a courteous impulse as little as possible to incommode a fellow traveller. And then he knocked out his pipe, rose a shade stiffly to his feet, produced the ghost of a polite murmur, reached for the door beside her, and in a moment had vanished in quest of whatever convenience it had become incumbent upon him to seek. Miss Pringle was left alone – or alone except for the company of a harmless detective romance the quality of which had been most cruelly aspersed with the aid of an elegant gold pencil.
    Miss Pringle’s glance travelled, by an involuntary movement, to the suitcase perched on the rack in the further corner of the compartment. It revealed a luggage-label of that old-fashioned sort consisting of a leather sheath with a small celluloid window through which a visiting-card may be exhibited. It could be seen that such a card was actually on view, and it would be quite easy to stand up and examine it. Miss Pringle, who would have hated to be caught out in any unladylike act, hesitated. What if the owner of the suitcase had discovered what he sought to be ‘engaged’, and had decided that, rather than linger awkwardly in the corridor, he would simply return in temporary bafflement to his compartment? But Miss Pringle was a courageous woman, and she decided to risk it. What this resolution brought her was the following:
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    A G de P Bulkington
    Imperial Forces Club
    Pall Mall, SW1
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    This was informative; yet, somehow, it was not quite informative enough. Miss Pringle’s curiosity was but sharpened, and it was when thus vulnerably keyed-up that her attention was caught by something else. The gentleman’s overcoat had been thrown carelessly on a vacant seat, with its lining – and in that lining an inner pocket – revealed. And peeping out from the pocket…
    A strong tremor passed through Miss Pringle’s frame. She felt like one standing on the brink of an awful chasm. What she saw was a letter, without a doubt. And a letter might tell much, or all!
    Ladies do not trespass upon the private correspondence of gentlemen. On this there could be no conceivable argument. But are not lady-novelists a little different from mere ladies? Do they not possess a certain licence – even, in a sense, a certain duty – in the matter of possessing themselves as they can of whatever may the better inform them of the mysterious lives of the opposite sex? And all that seemed required, initially at least, was a mere tweak. The letter might simply have tumbled from the pocket! Miss Pringle tweaked, and found herself looking at an envelope thus directed in a sprawling hand:
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    Captain A G de P Bulkington
    â€˜Kandahar’
    Long Canings
    Wilts.
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    At this moment Miss Pringle heard the sliding-door of the compartment open again. She relapsed abruptly into her seat – or rather into the seat opposite Captain Bulkington’s. It was a very awkward moment.

 
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    But Captain Bulkington seemed to notice nothing amiss. Perhaps he merely supposed that Miss Pringle preferred the view from this side of the train or imagined that she was avoiding a draught. He moved his overcoat a little, absently shoving the letter back into his pocket as he did so. He sat down, stiffly and this time with an audible creak, and slanted his legs unobtrusively in the manner necessary even in first-class carriages if one is to avoid an accidental flick or kick at opposing toes or ankles. All was well; nothing was going to be said. Miss