He gasped when he saw what was in it. Automatically, he grabbed a thick packet of bills and shoved them into his inside coat pocket. Then, hearing an approaching telltale sound, he slammed the bag shut, pushed it under the couch, and flattened himself against the wall by the doorway.

The train jerked and began to move. Doc's swift footsteps came closer. Then the drapes rustled, and in the mirror above the lavatory the thief saw his pursuer glance inside.

There was a muttered curse of disappointment. Then the drapes fell back into place, and the car door wheezed open and shut. The thief stayed where he was, motionless, hardly breathing. Some thirty seconds passed. The train slowly gathered speed. It still wasn't going too fast for a man to jump off, but…

There was a muted clang. The grating and scraping of metal against metal. Then silence save for the clicking of the wheels. Exultantly, the thief let out his breath.

He pulled the bag from beneath the couch and stepped out into the vestibule. The metal platform above the steps was swinging free, and the lower half of the exit door was partly open. The thief laughed out loud. What a break! Boy, what a break! Him speeding toward California with a satchelful of dough, and the guy back there at the station looking for him. And he couldn't raise a beef about his loss!

Grinning, he reclosed and locked the exit door. He entered the next car, the smoker, threw two seats together and tossed the bag onto the overhead rack. He sat down, placed his feet comfortably on the seat ahead of him.

And Doc moved away from the rear wall of the car, and sat down at his side. The thief gaped; his stiff lips framed a silent question. Doc jerked his head over his shoulder. "Back there," he said. "In the same place you were, approximately, when you hid in the rest room. I'll tell you something," he added. "Whenever you can see someone in a mirror, you can also be seen."

"B-but_" the thief shook his head helplessly. "But…"

"I wanted to get you out of the rest room, and it wouldn't have looked well to carry you-just in case someone was looking. And of course you'd head this way instead of going back the way you came." He smiled unpleasantly, prodding the thief's ribs with his gun. "That's the mark of a punk, you know. He loves a cinch. I'd jumped the train, supposedly, and it was traveling fast. But you were still too gutless togo back into the cars. You were afraid I might spot you from the platform and hop back on."

He was very annoyed with the thief. The man had given him an extremely bad time, and he was apt to receive an even worse one from Carol as an aftermath. He had seen her just before he sat down, motioned to her as she hesitantly entered the car behind. And while he couldn't tell much about her expression at that distance, he could see that she was angry. He had known that she must be before she showed up; as soon as, having cornered the thief, he had had time to think of anything else.

"Put the rod away, mister." The thief was smiling, getting back his nerve. "You aren't going to use it."

"That's another mark of a punk," Doc told him. "He doesn't know when to be frightened."

"You can't use it. You can't make any kind of rumble. If you could, you'd've already done it." He winked at Doc companionably. "We're two of a kind, mister. You…"

"Now that, "Doc said, "is carrying things too far." And he whipped the gun barrel upward.

It smashed against the point of the thief's chin. His eyes glazed, and his body went into a sacklike sag. Methodically, Doc locked an arm around his head, braced the other across his back and jerked.

It was over in a split second. If a man can die instantly, the thief did.

Doc tilted the seat back a little, adjusted the man's body to a slightly reclining position. He placed his feet on the seat ahead, and pulled his hat over his eyes.

Doc studied the corpse critically. He gave it a few minor touches-closing the staring eyes, putting one of the limp hands into a coat pocket-and was satisfied. To all appearances the man was asleep. Even Carol thought he was-or would have, if she had not known otherwise.

She sat down facing Doc, her anger somewhat weakened by the relief of being reunited with him. He hadn't had it very easy either, she guessed. And the terrifying mixup at the station was probably more her own fault than his. Still…

She couldn't quite locate the cause of her anger; explain, in absolute terms, why she had viewed him and almost everything he had done with distrust and distaste practically from the moment of their postrobbery meeting. It wasn't so much what he'd done, she supposed, as what he had not. Not so much what he was, as what he was not. And in her mind she wailed bridelike for what she had lost-or thought she had; for something that had never existed outside of her mind.

He doesn't treat me like he used to, she thought. He's not the same man any more.

"Carol-" Doc spoke to her a second time. "I said I was sorry, dear."

She looked at him coldly, shrugged. "All right. What's the pitch now?"

"That depends. Has the conductor collected your ticket-no? Well, that's good. But he did see you when you got on?"

Carol shook her head. "The train was already moving. If the porter hadn't hopped off and helped me-well, never mind. The less said about that the better."

"Perhaps. For the moment at least." Doc looked back through the door, saw the conductor trudging up the aisle of the next car. "Now give me one of the tickets-for my friend here-and just follow my lead."

The conductor was grumbling, complaining, almost before he reached them. What was the sense of their coming way up here? It was uncomfortable for them, and it made things hard on him. Doc murmured apologies. Their friend had wanted to visit the diner; having come this far in the wrong direction, he had decided to remain.

"My wife and I are getting off at the first stop," he added, proffering a bill along with the ticket. "We hadn't planned to…"

"You're getting off?" the conductor exploded. "This isn't some commuter's local, mister. You shouldn't have got on without a ticket; shouldn't've stayed on anyway."

"And we hadn't planned to. But this gentleman wasn't feeling well and…"

"Then he shouldn't have got on either! Or he ought to've bought himself some Pullman space." He jabbed a train check into the window clip, yanked a coupon from the ticket book and tossed it down onto the seat. "You don't have enough money there, mister," he snapped at Doc. "The first scheduled stop for this train is ten o'clock tonight."

Carol's mouth tightened nervously. Ten o'clock- more than nine hours from now! They could never maintain the masquerade of the «sleeping» man that long. The conductor was already studying him narroweyed, turning a suspicious gaze toward Doc.

"What's the matter with him anyway?" he said. "He acts like he was drunk or doped or something. Here, you," he started to grab the corpse by the shoulder. "What…"

Doc caught his hand, grimly rose up from the seat. "I'll tell you what's the matter with him," he said. "He got a bad jostling when he boarded the train. Started up an old neck injury. You didn't notice because you were off chatting with a friend instead of minding your job. But I've got several witnesses to the fact that it happened, and if you're looking for trouble, I'll be glad to supply it."

The conductor's mouth opened and reopened. He swallowed heavily. Doc softened his tone, warmed him with a look of man-to-man sympathy.

"Now, I know a man can't be everyplace at once," he said. "I don't always follow rules right to the letter, and I don't expect anyone else to. And as long as my friend isn't seriously injured, we're both inclined to forget the matter. On the other hand. -

He let the words hang in the air. The conductor glanced at his watch, took out a receipt book. "Suppose we pull a stop for you in about an hour? I could do it sooner, I guess, but we might get a flag there anyway, and…"