The Rome Express, the direttissimo, or most direct, was approaching
Paris one morning in March, when it became known to the occupants
of the sleeping-car that there was something amiss, very much
amiss, in the car. The train was travelling the last stage, between
Laroche and Paris, a run of a hundred miles without a stop. It had
halted at Laroche for early breakfast, and many, if not all the
passengers, had turned out. Of those in the sleeping-car, seven in
number, six had been seen in the restaurant, or about the platform;
the seventh, a lady, had not stirred. All had reentered their
berths to sleep or doze when the train went on, but several were on
the move as it neared Paris, taking their turn at the lavatory,
calling for water, towels, making the usual stir of preparation as
the end of a journey was at hand.
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