On the way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him.
In the car he sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking
steadfastly out of the window at the dying day. There were
mountains away westwards, touched with golden light; sometimes for
long minutes together the train was rushing through forests whose
darkness was like that of a tunnel. Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent
to these changes. The coming of night did not disturb him. His
brain was at work, and the things which he saw were hidden from
other men.
Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.
"You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served.
The restaurant car will be detached at the next stop."
"What of it?" Mr. Sabin asked calmly.
"I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is
thirty hours since you ate anything save biscuits."
Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.
"You are quite right, Duson," he said. "I will dine."
In half-an-hour he was back again. Duson placed before him silently
a box of cigarettes and matches. Mr. Sabin smoked.
Soon the lights of the great city flared in the sky, the train
stopped more frequently, the express men and newspaper boys came
into evidence. Mr. Sabin awoke from his long spell of thought. He
bought a newspaper, and glanced through the list of steamers which
had sailed during the week.
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