HARRY and Forey entered the coupe. Harry swung the car about at the sheriff’s order. They rolled back to the old road, then headed for the house, with the touring car following. When they reached the gloomy building, Forey ordered Harry to keep on. They came to the town road, one hundred yards past the house. Here Harry was ordered to turn right; a straight stretch followed; then Forey ordered another right turn on a road that cut over toward the railway.
“The station is about a mile from town,” explained Forey. “Midway between town and that grade crossing you came over. These roads curve around worse than snakes.”
The blare of a locomotive whistle; the sound of a slackening rattle — these were evident as Harry took a bend. The sheriff grunted.
“Inbound local,” was his comment. “Just past the grade crossing. We’ll get there with it.”
The prediction was correct. A final twist in the road brought the coupe up to a little railroad station. Simultaneously, a two-car train coasted out from among the trees. Harry saw rails glimmer in the glare of the locomotive’s headlight. He heard the ringing of the bell.
“Sit tight,” growled Forey, as Harry drew up near the station. “There’s people getting on and off. There’s Zach Hoyler, the station agent, out on the platform. We’ll wait until he goes back in.”
A few automobiles were waiting by the station. Passengers from the local entered them. The locomotive bell began in response to the conductor’s pull of the bell cord. Harry saw the station agent, a tall, stoop-shouldered fellow in shirt sleeves, as he sauntered back into the little depot. The parked cars rolled away.
“Come on,” ordered the sheriff.
WHEN Harry and Forey entered the station, they found the agent behind the ticket window. Dull eyes peered toward the visitors; then a pleasant grin appeared upon the agent’s face as the man recognized the sheriff.
“Hello, Tim,” greeted Hoyler.
“Hello, Zach,” returned Forey. “Meet Mr. Vincent. Friend of mine from New York.”
A quizzical look appeared upon Hoyler’s tired face as the fellow shook hands with the sheriff’s companion. Harry classified the agent as a typical key-pounder who served as telegraph operator as well as station master. Hoyler showed signs of long resignation.
“Vincent is sending a telegram,” remarked Forey. “Give him a blank, Zach.”
The agent complied. Harry looked at Forey and raised his eyebrows. The sheriff nodded and spoke in response to the quiet question.
“Say what you want,” he ordered. “But keep it kind of quiet. Say, Zach” — he turned to the station agent — “who went out on that local just now?”
“Only Pete Lovel and Bill Crowder,” replied the station agent. “Going down to Laporte for the evening. Came over in Scully’s old cab.”
“When are they coming back?”
“On the Union Limited. Heard them tell Scully to meet it.”
“Anybody else around here?”
“Couple of the town boys. Jeff Wheaton and a pal of his. Walked in about half past seven and bummed around. They picked up a ride, I reckon, in one of those cars that was going back to town.”
“Humph.” The sheriff looked around to make sure that no one had entered; then he turned to the agent again. “Listen, Zach, I don’t want anything said about my being over here. There’s been a little trouble and I want it kept quiet.”
“Sure thing, Tim. What’s up?”
“Vincent here found a fellow lying on the hill road. Thought the man was dead and so he called me up from Breck’s place. When we went back to the road, the man had gone.”
“Wasn’t dead after all?”
“No. But I didn’t like the looks of it, so Vincent is going to stay over at Breck’s until tomorrow. We’re going to look around some in the daytime.”
“Got old Breck kind of worried, eh?”
“Not him.” Forey laughed. “He don’t give a whoop. But I’m thinking about Ezekiel Twinton, up on the hill. He puts up a yap all the time. Scary fellow — always thinks there’s prowlers on his place. So this time I’m going to tell him I’ve been on the job. How about that telegram, Vincent? Got it ready?”
Harry nodded and passed the yellow sheet to the sheriff. Forey smiled approvingly as he read the message to Rutledge Mann.
“Detained in Chanburg,” said the sheriff, reading aloud. “Send full credentials care of Grantham Breck. Wire regarding securities.”
The sheriff thrust the telegram through the window. He grunted a good-by to the agent; then paused to add final words of admonition.
“Nobody knows I was here,” reminded Forey. “Nobody knows that wire went out. Got the idea, Zach?”
“Count on me, Tim,” responded the agent, as he placed the telegram on the table beside the telegraph key.
Harry followed Forey from the station. As they circled the little building, Harry was on the point of pausing. He was gripped momentarily by the same impression that he had gained on the hill road. He felt that eyes were watching him from somewhere outside the station. He was sure that a slight crunching sound had given him the idea.
Though the impression faded, Harry still felt uneasy as he entered the coupe. Nevertheless, he said nothing to Tim Forey. Harry felt that he had gained the sheriff’s confidence. He believed that it would be unwise to suggest anything that might make Forey return to his original doubts of Harry’s capability as a witness.
YET Harry Vincent might well have told Tim Forey of his impressions by the station. A quick investigation with flashlights would have proven that someone was near by. Two minutes after the coupe had rolled from the station, footsteps crunched upon the gravel of the driveway. A stocky, muffled figure appeared upon the lighted platform and moved stealthily toward the door. A gray-gloved hand turned the knob. A blunt, heavy-lipped countenance showed in the light of the waiting room as the intruder entered and moved softly toward the ticket window.
Zach Hoyler heard a footstep. He looked up quickly from his table and came promptly to his feet. Then he recognized the hard countenance that showed through the grille. His alarm changed to wearied annoyance.
“You again, eh?” he questioned. “Say, Nubin, if all the dicks on this line were like you, the agents would go goofy. I thought you went out of here on the afternoon express.”
“I did,” responded the hard-faced man with a grin. “But I came in on Number 42, ten minutes ago.”
“Yeah? I didn’t see you get off.”
“Nobody sees Perry Nubin when he don’t want to be seen. I dropped off on the other side of the train.”
“Kelly didn’t say anything about you being with him.”
“That dumb conductor? He didn’t know I was riding Number 42. I travel incognito, Hoyler.”
“Maybe you do,” snorted the agent. “And maybe you only rode the afternoon express down to the B and R crossing. Maybe you disguised yourself as a track-walker and hit it back along the ties.”
“Or maybe I came in on the freight, eh? Well — I didn’t do either. I rode in on Number 42, like I just told you. Say, Hoyler — what was the sheriff doing here?”
“Saying hello.”
“Yeah? And the bird with him. The guy that sent the telegram?”
“Snooping through windows, eh?” grunted Hoyler. “No wonder you got bounced off the payroll of the B and R. They hire real dicks, not snoopers.”
“Answer my question,” growled Nubin. “The guy sent a telegram. Pass it over. I want to read it.”
Hoyler hesitated; then grinned. He picked up Harry’s message and passed it through the window. Nubin read it with furrowed brow; then he glared at the agent.