I sat very, very still on my seat in the train, staring at the newspaper of the man who sat opposite me. I felt I should move around a little, act natural, or I might actually draw his attention, but he was so perfectly still that I began to imagine I had not even heard him breathe, and to find it difficult to breathe myself. After a moment my worst fear was realized: he spoke without lowering the newspaper. His voice was exactly like his shoes and perfectly tailored pants; he spoke to me in English with an accent I couldn't place, although it had a flavor of French - or was I getting it mixed up with the headlines that danced on the outside of Le Monde, scrambling themselves under my agonized gaze? Terrible things were happening in Cambodia, in Algeria, in places I had never heard of, and my French had improved too much this year. But the man was speaking from behind the print, without moving his paper a millimeter. My skin tingled as I listened, because I couldn't believe what I was hearing. His voice was quiet, cultivated. It asked a single question: "Where is your father, my dear?"

I tore myself from my seat and jumped toward the door; I heard his newspaper fall behind me, but all my concentration was on the latch. It was not locked. I got it open in a moment of transcendent fear. I slipped out without turning around and ran in the direction Barley had taken to the dining car. There were other people dotted mercifully here and there in the compartments, their curtains open, their books and newspapers and picnic baskets balanced beside them, their faces turning curiously toward me as I sped past. I couldn't stop even to listen for footsteps behind me. I remembered suddenly that I'd left our valises in the compartment, on the overhead rack. Would he take those? Search them? My purse was on my arm; I had fallen asleep with it slipped over my wrist, as I always wore it in public.

Barley was in the dining car, at the far end, with his book open on a wide table. He had ordered tea and several other things, and it took him a moment to glance up from his little kingdom and register my presence. I must have looked wild, because he pulled me into the booth at once. "What is it?"

I put my face against his neck, struggling not to cry. "I woke up and there was a man in our compartment, reading the paper, and I couldn't see his face."

Barley put a hand in my hair. "A man with a newspaper? What are you so upset about?"

"He didn't let me see his face at all," I whispered, turning to look at the entrance to the dining car. There was no one there, no dark-suited figure entering to search it. "But he spoke to me behind the paper."

"Yes?" Barley seemed to have discovered that he liked my curls.

"He asked me where my father was."

"What?" Barley sat upright. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, in English." I sat up, too. "I ran, and I don't think he followed, but he's on the train. I had to leave our bags there."

Barley bit his lip; I half expected to see blood well up against his white skin. Then he signaled to the waiter, stood, conferred with him for a moment, and fished in his pockets for a large tip, which he left by his teacup. "Our next stop is Boulois," he said. "It's in sixteen minutes."

"What about our bags?"

"You've got your purse and I have my wallet." Barley suddenly stopped and stared at me. "The letters - "

"They're in my purse," I said quickly. "Thank God. We might have to leave the rest of the luggage, but it doesn't matter." Barley took my hand, and we went through the end of the dining car -  into the kitchen, to my surprise. The waiter hurried behind us, ushering us into a little niche near the refrigerators. Barley pointed; there was a door next to it. There we stood for sixteen minutes, I clutching my purse. It seemed only natural that we should stand holding each other tight, in that small space, like two refugees. Suddenly I remembered my father's gift and put my hand up to it: the crucifix hung against my throat in what I knew was plain sight. No wonder that newspaper had never been lowered. At last the train began to slow, the brakes shuddered and squealed, and we stopped. The waiter pushed a lever and the door near us opened. He gave Barley a conspiratorial grin; he probably thought this was a comedy of the heart, my irate father chasing us through the train, something of that sort. "Step off the train but stay right next to it," Barley advised me in a low voice, and we inched together onto the pavement. There was a broad stucco station there, under silvery trees, and the air was warm and sweet. "Do you see him?"

I peered down the train until finally I saw someone far along the line among the disembarking passengers - a tall, broad-shouldered figure in black, with something wrong about his entirety, a shadowy quality that made my stomach lurch. He wore a low, dark hat now, so that I couldn't see his face. He held a dark briefcase and a roll of white, perhaps the newspaper. "That's him." I tried not to point, and Barley drew me rapidly back on the steps.

"Stay out of sight. I'll watch where he goes. He's looking up and down." Barley peered out while I cowered resolutely back, my heart pounding. He kept a hard grip on my arm. "All right - he's walking the other way. No, he's coming back. He's looking in the windows. I think he's going to get on the train again. God, he's a cool one - checking his watch. He's stepping up. Now he's getting off again and coming this way. Get ready - we're going to go back in and run the length of the train if we have to. Are you ready?" At that moment, the fans whirred, the train gave a heave, and Barley swore. "Jesus, he's getting back on. I think he just realized we didn't really get off." Suddenly Barley jerked me off the steps and onto the platform. Next to us the train heaved again and started up. Several of the passengers had put the windows down and leaned out to smoke or gaze around. Among them, several cars away, I saw a dark head turned in our direction, a man with his shoulders squared - he was full, I thought, of a cold fury. Then the train was picking up speed, pulling around a curve. I turned to Barley, and we glared at each other. Except for a few villagers sitting in the little rural station, we were alone in the middle of a French nowhere.