"N-no."
"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the abduction?"
"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily.
"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?"
"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too. What is it now?"
"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it." He paused.
"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly.
"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a clear view of the people inside, and--" the speaker's tone became impressive--"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the other was--your lady of the tree."
Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back.
"Don't do that; there may be others to notice."
"Ruth? You saw Ruth?"
"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree is on this train."
It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths. Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal it from him altogether.
Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it? There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before. He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train kept saying: "You love her--you love her--" in monotonous cadence. And he knew that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end.