Melun.
An hour later Cyril Grey and Lisa and all their fellow passengers were
turned out at Fontainebleau. There had been a terrible disaster to the Paris-
Rome rapide at Moret. The line would be blocked all night.
"This contretemps," said Cyril, as if he had heard of a change of
programme at a theatre, "will add appreciably to the length — and, may I
add, to the romance — of our proposed walk.
When they reached Moret more than three hours [129] later, they found
the rapide inextricably tangled with a heavy freight train. It had left the line
at the curve and crashed into the slower train. Cyril Grey had still a surprise
in store. He produced a paper of some sort from his pocket, which the officer
of the police cordon received in the manner of the infant Samuel when
overwhelmed by the gift of prophecy. He made way for them with proud
deference.
They had not to walk far before the magician found what he was seeking.
Beneath the ruins of the rear compartment were the remains of the late Akbar
Pasha.
"I wonder how that happened," he said. "However, here is a guess at your
epitaph: 'a little learning is a dangerous thing.' I think, Lisa, that we should
sup at the Cheval Blanc before we start our walk to Barbizon. It is a long
way, especially at night, and we want to cut away to the west so as to avoid
Fontainebleau, for the sake of the romance of the thing."
Lisa did not mind whether she supped at the White Horse, or on one. She
realized that she had hold of a man of strength, wisdom, and foresight, far
more than a match for their enemies.
He stopped to speak to the officer in charge of the cordon as they passed
him. "Among the dead: Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Grey. English people. No flowers.
Service of the minister."
The officer promised to record the lie officially. His deference was
amazing. Lisa perceived that her lover had been at the pains to arm himself
with more than one kind of weapon.
Lisa pressed his arm, and murmured her appreciation of his cleverness.
"It won't deceive Douglas for two minutes, if he be, as I suspect, the
immediate Hound of the Baskervilles, but he may waste some time rejoicing
[130] over my being such an ass as to try it; and that's always a gain."
Lisa began to wonder whether her best chance of ever saying the right
thing would not be to choose the wrong. His point of view was always round