'Um…' I said. 'You follow racing quite a bit?'

'My dear young man, didn't Bill tell you? His father and I owned and ran the Ontario Raceworld magazine for years before we sold it to a conglomerate.'

'I see,' I said faintly.

'And as for the Vancouver race,' she went on blithely, 'Laurentide Ice might as well melt right now, but Sparrowgrass and Voting Right are both in with a good chance. Sparrowgrass will probably start favourite as his form is consistently good, but as you ask, very likely the best horse, the one with most potential for the future, is Mercer Lorrimore's Voting Right, and I would give that one the edge.'

'Mrs Baudelaire,' I said, 'you are a gem.'

'Beyond the price of rubies,' she agreed. 'Anything else?'

'Nothing, except… I hope you are well.'

'No, not very. You're kind to ask. Goodbye, young man. I'm always here.'

She put the receiver down quickly as if to stop me from asking anything else about her illness, and it reminded me sharply of my Aunt Viv, bright, spirited and horse mad to the end.

I went back to the dining car to find Oliver and Cathy lying the tables for dinner, and I helped them automatically, although they said I needn't. The job done, we repaired to the kitchen door to see literally what was cooking and to take the printed menus from Angus to put on the tables.

Blinis with caviar, we read, followed by rack of lamb or cold poached salmon, then chocolate mousse with cream.

'There won't be any over,' Cathy sighed, and she was right as far as the blinis went, though we all ate lamb in the end.

With ovens and gas burners roaring away, it was wiltingly hot even at the dining-room end of the kitchen. Down where the chef worked, a temperature gauge on the wall stood at 102° Fahrenheit, but tall willowy Angus, whose high hat nearly brushed the ceiling, looked cool and unperturbed.

'Don't you have air-conditioning?' I asked.

Angus said, 'In summer, I dare say. October is however officially winter, even though it's been warm this year. The air-conditioning needs freon gas which has all leaked away, and it won't be topped up again until spring. So Simone tells me.'

Simone, a good foot shorter and with sweat trickling down her temples, mutely nodded.

The passengers came straggling back shedding overcoats and saying it was cold outside, and again the dining car filled up. The Lorrimores this time were all sitting together. The Youngs were with the Unwins from Australia and Filmer and Daffodil shared a table with a pair Nell later identified to me as the American owners of the horse called Flokati.

Filmer, extremely smooth in a dark suit and grey tie, solicitously removed Daffodil's chinchillas and hung them over the back of her chair. She shimmered in a figure-hugging black dress, diamonds sparkling whenever she moved, easily outstripping the rest of the company (even Mavis Bricknell) in conspicuous expenditure.

The train made its smooth inconspicuous departure and I did my stuff with water and breadsticks.

Bambi Lorrimore put her hand arrestingly on my arm as I passed. She was wearing a mink jacket and struggling to get out of it.

'Take this back into our private car, will you?' she said. 'It's too hot in here. Put it in the saloon, not the bedroom.'

'Certainly, madam,' I agreed, helping her with alacrity. 'I'd be glad to.'

Mercer produced a key and gave it to me, explaining that I would come to a locked door.

'Lock it again when you come back.'

'Yes, sir.'

He nodded and, carrying the coat away over my arm, I went back through the dome car and with a great deal of interest into the private quarters of the Lorrimores.

There were lights on everywhere. I came first to a small unoccupied sleeping space, then a galley, cold and lifeless. Provision for private food and private crew, but no food, no crew. Beyond that was the locked door, and beyond that a small handsome dining room to seat eight. Through there, down a corridor, there were three bedrooms, two with the doors open. I took a quick peek inside: bed, drawers, small bathroom with shower. One was clearly Xanthe's, the other by inference Sheridan 's. I didn't go into the parents' room but went on beyond it to find myself in the rear part of the carriage, at the very end of the train.It was a comfortable drawing room with a television set and abundant upholstered armchairs in pastel blues and greens. I went over to the rear door and looked out, seeing a little open boarding platform with a polished brass-topped balustrade and, beyond, the Canadian Pacific's single pair of rails streaming away into darkness. The railroad across

Canada, I'd learned, was single track for most of the way. Only in towns and at a few other places could trains going in opposite directions pass.

I put the mink coat on a chair and retraced my journey, locking the door again and eventually returning the key to Mercer who nodded without speech and put it in his pocket.

Emil was pouring wine. The passengers were scoffing the blinis. I eased into the general picture again and became as unidentifiable as possible. Few people, I discovered, looked directly at a waiter's eyes, even when they were talking to him.

About an hour after we'd left Sudbury we stopped briefly for under five minutes at a place called Cartier and then went on again. The passengers, replete with the lamb and chocolate mousse, lingered over coffee, and began to drift away to the dome car's bar lounge. Xanthe Lorrimore got up from the table after a while and went that way, and presently came back screaming.

This time, the real thing. She came stumbling back into the dining car followed by a commotion of people yelling behind her.

She reached her parents who were bewildered as well as worried.

'I was nearly killed,' she said frantically. 'I nearly stepped off into space. I mean, I was nearly killed.'

'Darling,' Mercer said calmingly, 'what has exactly happened?'

'You don't understand.' She was screaming, trembling, hysterical. 'I nearly stepped into space because our private car isn't there.'

It brought both of the Lorrimores to their feet in an incredulous rush, but they had only to look at the faces crowding behind her to know it was true.

'And they say, all those people say.' she was gasping, half unable to get the words out, terribly frightened '. they say the other train, the regular Canadian, is only half an hour behind us, and will smash into… will smash into… don't you see?'

The Lorrimores, followed by everyone still in the dining room, went dashing off into the dome car, but Emil and I looked at each other, and I said, 'How do we warn that train?'

'Tell the Conductor. He has a radio.'

'I'll go,' I said. 'I know where his office is. I'll find him.'

'Hurry then.'

'Yes.'

I hurried. Ran. Reached George's office.

No one there.

I went on, running where I could, and found him walking back towards me through the dayniter. He instantly took in that I brought bad news and steered me at once into the noisy outside coupling space between the dayniter and the central dining car.

'What is it?' he shouted.

'The Lorrimores' private car is unhitched… it's somewhere back on the track, and the Canadian is coming.'

He moved faster than I would have thought anyone could on a train and was already talking into a radio headset when I reached his office.

'The private car was there at Carrier,' he said. 'I was off the train there and saw it. Are you sure it's not in sight?' He listened. 'Right, then radio to the Canadian and warn the Conductor he'll not be leaving Cartier, eh? I'll get this train stopped and we'll go back for the lost car. See what's what. You'd better inform Toronto and Montreal. They won't think this is very funny on a Sunday evening, eh?' He chuckled and looked at me assessingly as I stood in his doorway. 'I'll leave someone here manning the radio,' he continued. 'Tell him when you've got the Canadian understanding the situation, eh?'