Death Walks at Eastrepps

ROBERT ELDRIDGE sat back in his seat. The train would be moving presently. He looked at his watch.... Twelve minutes past seven. He had perhaps entered the train too soon. His compartment might at the last moment be invaded. Then, of course, he would have to move into another.

He hoped it had not been noticed— this anxiety of his to avoid his fellow-men whenever he caught the 7:15 from Fenchurch Street. But that was hardly likely. There was nothing to excite suspicion or even comment in his wish to travel alone. Most Englishmen preferred, if possible, to do so. There was no call for anyone to guess that he had a special reason of his own.

So far the scheme had worked well. It had been in operation now for six months, and never a hitch... so far. He must have brought it off something between twenty and thirty times. It was still, however, difficult to feel at ease. One of these days...

Why had they not thought of something less elaborate, simpler and more normal altogether? Eldridge sighed. He was, he reflected, like that. If there were two possible courses, one straightforward and the other devious, he was bound to find himself sooner or later committed to the more romantic.