The Cinema Murder | Page 5

was suddenly opened and closed. The sound of footsteps approaching
the ticket window was heard. A long, white hand was thrust through the aperture, a voice
was heard from the invisible outside.
"Third to Detton Junction, please."
The station-master took the ticket from a little rack, received the exact sum he demanded,
swept it into the till, and resumed his place before the fire. The porter, with the lamp in
his hand, lounged out into the booking-hall. The prospective passenger, however, was
nowhere in sight. He looked back into the office.
"Was that Jim Spender going up to see his barmaid again?" he asked his superior.

The station master yawned drowsily.
"Didn't notice," he answered. "What an old woman you're getting, George! Want to know
everybody's business, don't you?"
The porter withdrew, a little huffed. When, a few minutes later, the train drew in, he even
avoided ostentatiously a journey to the far end of the platform to open the door for the
solitary passenger who was standing there. He passed up the train and slammed the door
without even glancing in at the window. Then he stood and watched the red lights
disappear.
"Was it Jim?" the station master asked him, on their way out.
"Didn't notice," his subordinate replied, a little curtly. "Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't.
Good night!"
* * * * *
Philip Romilly sat back in the corner of his empty third-class carriage, peering out of the
window, in which he could see only the reflection of the feeble gas-lamp. There was no
doubt about it, however--they were moving. The first stage of his journey had
commenced. The blessed sense of motion, after so long waiting, at first soothed and then
exhilarated him. In a few moments he became restless. He let down the rain-blurred
window and leaned out. The cool dampness of the night was immensely refreshing, the
rain softened his hot cheeks. He sat there, peering away into the shadows, struggling for
the sight of definite objects--a tree, a house, the outline of a field--anything to keep the
other thoughts away, the thoughts that came sometimes like the aftermath of a grisly,
unrealisable nightmare. Then he felt chilly, drew up the window, thrust his hands into his
pockets from which he drew out a handsome cigarette case, struck a match, and smoked
with vivid appreciation of the quality of the tobacco, examined the crest on the case as he
put it away, and finally patted with surreptitious eagerness the flat morocco letter case in
his inside pocket.
At the Junction, he made his way into the refreshment room and ordered a long whisky
and soda, which he drank in a couple of gulps. Then he hastened to the booking office
and took a first-class ticket to Liverpool, and a few minutes later secured a seat in the
long, north-bound express which came gliding up to the side of the platform. He spent
some time in the lavatory, washing, arranging his hair, straightening his tie, after which
he made his way into the elaborate dining-car and found a comfortable corner seat. The
luxury of his surroundings soothed his jagged nerves. The car was comfortably warmed,
the electric light upon his table was softly shaded. The steward who waited upon him was
swift-footed and obsequious, and seemed entirely oblivious of Philip's shabby,
half-soaked clothes. He ordered champagne a little vaguely, and the wine ran through his
veins with a curious potency. He ate and drank now and then mechanically, now and then
with the keenest appetite. Afterwards he smoked a cigar, drank coffee, and sipped a
liqueur with the appreciation of a connoisseur. A fellow passenger passed him an evening
paper, which he glanced through with apparent interest. Before he reached his journey's

end he had ordered and drunk another liqueur. He tipped the steward handsomely. It was
the first well-cooked meal which he had eaten for many months.
Arrived at Liverpool, he entered a cab and drove to the Adelphi Hotel. He made his way
at once to the office. His clothes were dry now and the rest and warmth had given him
more confidence.
"You have a room engaged for me, I think," he said, "Mr. Douglas Romilly. I sent some
luggage on."
The man merely glanced at him and handed him a ticket.
"Number sixty-seven, sir, on the second floor," he announced.
A porter conducted him up-stairs into a large, well-furnished bedroom. A fire was blazing
in the grate; a dressing-case, a steamer trunk and a hatbox were set out at the foot of the
bedstead.
"The heavier luggage, labelled for the hold, sir," the man told him, "is down-stairs, and
will go direct to the steamer to-morrow morning. That was according to your instructions,
I believe."
"Quite right," Philip assented. "What