I looked for some recognition between the two members of the same
troupe, but my companion gave not the slightest sign that the Dog Woman
existed. Jealous, of course, I said to myself. That's another
professional trait.
The Ring Master now passed, raised his hat and entered his compartment.
No sign of recognition; rather a cold, frigid stare, I thought.
The Sleeping-Car Manager next stepped through the car, lifted his hat
when he caught sight of my companion, tiptoed deferentially until he
reached the door, and went on to the next car. She acknowledged his
homage with a slight bend of her beautiful head, rose from her seat,
gave an order in Russian to her English maid who was standing in the
door of her compartment, held out her hand to me with a frank
good-night, and closed the door behind her.
I looked in on the bald-headed man. He was tucked away in the upper
berth sound asleep.
* * * * *
When the next morning I moved up the long platform of the Gare du Nord
in search of a cab, I stepped immediately behind the big Danish hound.
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