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 the long Pullman coaches he was conscious of a memory of a hurt expression in the stranger's eyes, a consciousness that puzzled him somewhat as he settled down once more in his own compartment. Alone, feeling more secure, he began a new game of solitaire, following this up with another, and another. Soon he was playing with no particular realization of his occupation beyond the obvious and practical fact that he was indubitably killing time. A little later he became aware, although his eyes alternately followed the cards or gazed almost unseeingly out of the window, that some one was standing in the doorway. Glancing quickly in that direction he recognized the stranger who had addressed him in the club car. There was something shy about his expression and that hurt look of a wounded animal still lurked in his honest blue eyes.

See you're playing cards, after all, were the words that dropped from the fellow's lips.

Yes, Ambrose replied. Turning up a ten of clubs, he placed it on a red jack. His fingers trembled as he dealt three more cards.

Why don't you play the nine of hearts? the spectre demanded.

Attempting to follow this excellent advice, Ambrose clumsily dropped his deck. In the meantime the