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compartment,’ he roared. ‘There must be a law to stop a bloody fool chucking away his ancestors’ wealth on a demned
native!’
    The bald man shook his head and said something inaudible. Belinda moved on. Everyone was angry with Uncle Albert McGowan for leaving his money to an Indian, though she couldn’t see why he
shouldn’t if he wanted to. She hadn’t understood everything she had heard, but it sounded as if they were all afraid even to go and talk to Mr. McGowan because he said he didn’t
want to see them. He must be a real ogre.
    To her disappointment, the next door was closed and the blinds down. She went to the lavatory, then started back to rejoin Miss Dalrymple.
    In front of her, a small man in black came out of Mr. McGowan’s compartment. Turning back, he gave a sort of stiff little bow and said, ‘Very good, sir. I shall convey your message
to Dr. Jagai.’
    He slid the door shut. Belinda stepped back into the carriage-end vestibule to let him pass. As she set off again, the train jolted, clattering over some points, and she saw the door slide back
an inch. The man in black hadn’t closed it far enough to latch properly.
    Belinda promptly applied her eye to the gap. Mr. McGowan looked more like a goblin than an ogre, she decided. She must remember to tell Kitty he ought to be called Mr. McGoblin. His long, narrow
face was yellowish and covered with hundreds and hundreds of wrinkles. His yellowish scalp showed through lank strands of yellow-grey hair, but his eyebrows were even bushier than Daddy’s. He
sat hunched in the corner, a rug over his legs though the window was shut and stifling hot air wafted through the crack onto Belinda’s face.
    It was hard to tell with all those wrinkles, but she thought he looked bored and miserable. She felt sorry for him. It must be horrid having everyone hate him, even if it was his own fault.
    Belinda would have liked to talk to him about India. What a pity he was an ogre! She was about to leave her peephole when the train rattled over another set of points and to her horror the door
slid all the way open.

 
    CHAPTER 4
    ‘ Ha !’ snapped the goblin in a far from feeble voice. ‘Who’re you, hey? A Gillespie? A Smythe-Pike? A Briton, or whatever the fellow calls
himself?’
    ‘I’m a Fletcher,’ Belinda squeaked.
    ‘Not family?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Good. Come in, then, Miss Fletcher, and close the door before I catch my death. There’s a terrible draught. Come in, come in, I don’t bite. At least, not pretty little
girls.’
    He didn’t look strong enough to kidnap her, Belinda thought. Besides, he couldn’t very well on a moving train. ‘I’ll come in,’ she temporized, ‘if I can put
one of the blinds up, so if Miss Dalrymple comes looking she can see me.’
    ‘Very well, very well,’ he grumbled. ‘Anything for company that doesn’t come to sponge. This Dalrymple woman, she’s your governess?’
    ‘No, just a friend. I don’t have a governess, I go to school.’ Stepping in, Belinda wrestled the door shut and let up a blind. ‘Are you Mr. Albert McGowan, sir?’
she asked.
    ‘That’s right. Talking about me, are they, hey?’ He laughed, a peculiar, creaky sound. ‘And not a good word among ’em, I’ll be bound.’
    Uncertain how to answer, she proffered her bag of sweeties. ‘Would you like some aniseed balls?’
    ‘No, thank you, Miss Fletcher. I am obliged to watch what I eat or suffer appalling consequences. Do you play chess?’
    ‘Sort of. Daddy’s taught me the moves. But I’m not very good.’
    Pale, washed-out eyes peered at her from under the shaggy brows. He nodded. ‘I like an honest woman. Perhaps we’d better stick to draughts, then, Miss Fletcher. Can you climb up and
get down my campstool to put the board on?’
    Standing on the seat, Belinda took down the green canvas stool from the rack. She opened it and set it on the floor in front of him, and he laid on it the traveling chequer-board he had