Mr Algernon Blackwood writes in the “Westminster Gazette”:—
“Talking of railway accidents—” “But we weren’t,” interrupted the prig. “⸺and of narrow escapes,” continued Mr. Popklss, ignoring the contradiction, and looking like an offended parrot with his head on one side, “reminds me of one.” “Which?” inquired the prig smartly, “the railway accident or the narrow escape?” He was a small young man, with red eyes and a face like a weasel. He was also a “psychical student.” “Both,” said Popklss, looking at him over the top of his spectacles, and spreading out his coattails before the fire, so that he resembled more than ever a parrot, jaunty, yet slightly ruffled, swinging on its perch. “Let’s have the story,” said Brown, in a tone of authority. And the story began at once; for Brown was “the intellect” of the little party of newspaper men telling yarns round the club fireplace that deserted Christmas-week, when their duties held them in London after everyone else had gone. “It saved my life, so it was nearly on accident,” continued Mr. Popklss ambiguously, “and this is how it happened. Most odd, it was.” ‘ He buttoned his coat tightly, as though conscious that he resembled a bird, and anxious to dissemble the fact. He was a man of fifty, bald, shabby, timid, and kindhearted—an unsuccessful solicitor. “It was last year, on the Boxing Day after Christmas,” he begun in his high-pitched voice, “and I was in a third-class carriage, going down into Surrey for the New Year’s week. I was alone, sitting by the window. It was after ten o’clock, and I was drowsy, but not asleep. The window streamed with rain. Outside, everything was black and raw and miserable—utterly cheerless. Just after leaving Wimbledon station another train drew up alongside, and I watched it through the window of my corner-seat, trying to work up an interest, and wondering which would win. I imagined the two trains were racing—as one is apt to do at such a time—and that all the passengers knew it. But for a long time we both ran an even race, neck and neck, and I remember thinking what a fool our engine-driver was not to put on steam ami pull ahead. “Faster and faster we went. It annoyed me that all these stupid passengers in the other train were so close to me, going to other destinations than mine, It seemed so dull and boring for them. You know the kind of foolish thoughts that wander up and down the mind at such times.” “Quite,” said the psychical student; “quite!” “And I was glad the windows were so blurred by rain that they couldn’t see into my carriage—when, suddenly, I turned with a start and found that my own window was clear as crystal, and that I could see with the greatest ease into the carriage running close beside me. Something had sponged the windows clean. And in the corner seat of that other carriage, so close to my elbow that I could have put my hand out and touched him, sat a man, huddled up in overcoats and rugs, just as I was.” Mr. Popklss unbuttoned the top button of his coat to allow more freedom for possible gestures. The group of listeners stared with keen attention. The mind of the weasel-faced student was already busily searching for flaws by means of which he might tear the story to pieces the moment it was finished. “Quite inexplicably,” continued Mr. Popklss, pitching his voice higher in key but lower in tone, “the figure of this man arrested my attention vividly—almost unpleasantly. The face was hidden by his hand, but there was something about him that made me reflect. It seemed to me that I know who he was. Like myself, he was alone in an empty compartment. The curious idea entered my head that he was watching me through the fingers over his face; and a mysterious uneasiness I could not account for came over me. “I made a movement forward to look at him through the middle window—and the man made a precisely similar movement. Through the middle windows of both carriages our eyes met, and in a flash I saw who It was—” “You recognised him?” asked several voices together. “I recognised him beyond all question—he was myself!” continued Mr. Popklss, unfastening the second button of his coat; “absolutely myself!” “Another Popklss!” exclaimed the psychical student. “You mean a reflection, of course?” “At first I thought it was a reflection, for the man copied every movement I made—every single movement. I won’t bore you with details: but everything I did in my carriage that man also did in his carriage. And yet”—Popklss mopped his forehead and unbuttoned the last button—“there was something about him—something about the peering face with spectacles—about the silent movements and shadowy appearance-that woke a nameless terror in me. I began to perspire all over.