Free Stamboul Train by Graham Greene

seem to know you too,’ and what she meant were the long stairs, the agent’s door, and the young friendly Jew, explaining gently and without interest that he had nothing to offer her, nothing to offer her at all.
    Yes, she thought, they knew each other; they had both admitted the fact, and it had left them beggared of words. The world shifted and changed and passed them by. Trees and buildings rose and fell against a pale-blue clouded sky, beech changed to elm, and elm to fir, and fir to stone; a world, like lead upon a hot fire, bubbled into varying shapes, now like a flame, now like a leaf of clover. Their thoughts remained the same, and there was nothing to speak about, because there was nothing to discover.
    â€˜You don’t really want me to have breakfast with you,’ she said, trying to be sensible and break the embarrassment of their silence. But he would have nothing to do with her solution. ‘I do,’ he said, but there was a weakness in his voice which showed her that she had only to be masterful, to get up and leave him and go to her carriage, and he would make no resistance. But in her bag there were stale sandwiches and some of yesterday’s milk in a wine bottle, while down the corridor came the smell of boiling coffee and fresh white loaves.
    Mabel Warren poured out her coffee, black and strong with no sugar. ‘It’s the best story I’ve ever been after,’ she said. ‘I saw him five years ago walk out of court, while Hartep watched with the warrant in his pocket. Campbell, of the News, was after him at once, but he missed him in the street. He never went home, and no more was heard of him from that day to this. Everyone thought he had been murdered, but I never understood why, if they meant to murder him, they took out a warrant for his arrest.’
    â€˜Suppose,’ said Janet Pardoe, without much interest, ‘that he won’t speak.’
    Miss Warren broke a roll. ‘I’ve never failed yet.’
    â€˜You’ll invent something?’
    â€˜No, that’s good enough for Savory, but not for him.’ She said viciously, ‘I’ll make him speak. Somehow. Between here and Vienna. I’ve got nearly twelve hours. I’ll think of a way.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘He says he’s a schoolteacher. It may be true. That would be a good story. And where is he going? He says that he’s getting out at Vienna. If he does I’ll follow him. I’ll follow him to Constantinople if necessary. But I don’t believe it. He’s going home.’
    â€˜To prison?’
    â€˜To trial. He’s trusting the people perhaps. He was always popular in the slums. But he’s a fool if he thinks they’ll remember him. Five years. No one’s ever remembered for so long.’
    â€˜Darling, how morbid you are.’
    Mabel Warren came back with difficulty to her immediate surroundings, the coffee swaying in her cup, the gently rocking table, and Janet Pardoe. Janet Pardoe had pouted and protested and grieved, but now she was squinting sideways at a Jew who shared a table with a girl, common to Miss Warren’s eyes, but with a bright attraction. As for the man, his only merits were youth and money, but they were enough, Mabel Warren thought with bitter knowledge, to catch Janet’s eye. ‘You know it’s true,’ she said with useless anger. She tore at another roll with her square worn hand, while her emotion grew, how grotesquely she was aware. ‘You’ll have forgotten me in a week.’
    â€˜But of course I shan’t, darling. Why, I owe you everything.’ The words did not satisfy Mabel Warren. When I love, she thought, I do not think of what I owe. The world to her was divided into those who thought and those who felt. The first considered the dresses which had been bought them, the bills which had been paid, but presently the dresses went out of fashion and the wind caught the