Elma Clifford found herself thrust, hap-hazard, at the very last moment, into the last compartment of the last carriage of the train -- alone -- with an artist. Now, you and I, to be sure, most proverbially courteous and intelligent reader, might never have guessed at first sight, from the young man's outer aspect, the nature of his occupation. But she recognized him for what he was immediately, and she was right, and his name was Cyril Waring. He was the love of her life. Even in that first moment, Elma probably knew it. The trouble was, it seemed bound to be a short life. Before the train reached its next station, a tunnel through which it was travelling collapsed upon them. . . . All of a sudden a rapid jerk of the carriage pulled up their train unexpectedly. Elma was aware of a loud noise and a crash in front, almost instantaneously followed by a thrilling jar -- a low dull thud -- a sound of broken glass -- a quick blank stoppage. Next instant she found herself flung wildly forward into her neighbor's arms, while the artist, for his part, with outstretched hands, was vainly endeavoring to break the force of the fall for her. All she knew for the first few minutes was merely that there had been an accident to the train. Until the tunnel behind them collapsed as well, and then there was nothing either of them could do but wait. Wait, and, all but certainly, die.