Free Friendly Young Ladies by Mary Renault

it still; chloroform, for instance, on a handkerchief, a weapon which played a most important part in her mother’s cautionary tales.
    Five minutes later, her worst suspicions were confirmed. They were passing the blank wall of an embankment, and, reflected in the window, she could see that he was looking at her fixedly, and groping in the case at the same time. She shot a lightning glance at the communication cord above her head. Once he had seized her, she would not be able to reach it. But what if she pulled it in time, and when the guard came he pretended to be perfectly innocent? She would have to pay five pounds for its improper use: which would leave her with only half the price of a second pull.
    “Excuse me,” said the man.
    Elsie turned, with the rigid compulsion of a bird fascinated by a serpent. He was bringing his hand out of the case, and in it was something wrapped in a white cloth. She did not even look at the communication cord. It was too late now; it would only accelerate his spring.
    “You’ll pardon a liberty, I hope, miss. But being there’s no tea-car on this train, it crossed my mind if you’d care to help me out with these sandwiches.” He unfolded the wrapping and displayed them, a thick, juicy pile, the top half filled with sardine and the bottom half with egg. Could one drug sardines, and if drugged, did they smell so good? “My better half puts them up for me,” he added apologetically. “Can’t bear to think of me missing my tea. Fact is, if I get a good filling meal at midday, like what I had at Oxford today, they spoil my appetite for my supper, and that upsets her. But she’ll have me on the carpet just the same, if she finds any left.”
    “Thank you,” said Elsie, “very much.”
    The sandwiches were moist and delicious, most comforting to a stomach frugally sustained since morning with odd cups of tea and buns in railway refreshment rooms. The man lent her the Daily Mail , and she responded with John o’ London , which she had bought because she had felt it would be a cultured object to have with her on arrival. Her spirits mounted. Here she was, mature and sophisticated, emerging triumphant from a situation fraught with danger, conversing with a strange man on a train, and honour intact. She felt ready to cope with anything, even her destination. Her travelling companion eyed her paternally, between respectful glances at a potted life of George Sand. She reminded him of his own girl at the local high school, but it would have been a bit of a liberty to tell her so.
    “Well,” he said, glancing at his watch, “mine’s the next station.” He folded John o’ London with a certain alacrity. “Much obliged for the loan of your magazine. Very interesting. I see you’re like my daughter. She’d appreciate a good intellectual paper like this. I must draw her attention to it.”
    “Do please take her this one, if she’d like it. I’ve quite finished it, really.”
    “Well, that’s very kind, I’m sure. This’ll keep our Doris quiet for the rest of the evening. Doris is the brains of our family. Even in her holiday time she can’t keep away from her books. You’ll be on holiday yourself, I shouldn’t be surprised?”
    “Well, yes, I am in a way. As a matter of fact, I’m going to stay with my sister.” This verbal statement seemed to give the thing a new solidity. To prolong its comforting effect she added, “She lives at Mawley—on the river. Do you know it? I haven’t been there before.”
    “Really, now? Why, yes, I know Mawley, in a manner of speaking. Not to get down there, but I’ve passed it in the steamer many a time, taking our Doris for a trip. Very nice and enjoyable at this time of the year, I should reckon, for those that like a quiet spot. The steamer doesn’t pull up thereabouts. A place always appears more interesting, I’ve noticed, when one’s carried past it.”
    “I wonder if you could tell me. … You see, my sister isn’t