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I never see a shivering, white-faced wretch in the prisoners' dock that I do not hark back with shuddering horror to the strange events on the Pullman car Ontario, between Washington and Pittsburg, on the night of September ninth, last. McKnight could tell the story a great deal better than I, although he can not spell three consecutive words correctly.
It was black, staring, mysterious, as empty buildings are apt to be. "I'd like to hold a post-mortem on that corpse of a house," he said thoughtfully. "By George, I've a notion to get out and take a look." "Somebody after the brass pipes," I scoffed. "House has been empty for a year." With one hand on the steering wheel McKnight held out the other for my cigarette case.
In fact, so firm was her belief and so determined her eye that I took the umbrella she proffered me. "Never mind," I said. "We can leave it next door; I have a story to tell you, Richey, and it requires proper setting." McKnight was puzzled, but he followed me obediently round to the kitchen entrance of the empty house. It was unlocked, as I had expected.
He was swung well out from the car, his free hand gripping a small valise, every muscle tense for a jump. "Good God, that's my man!" I said hoarsely, as the audience broke into applause. McKnight half rose: in his seat ahead Johnson stifled a yawn and turned to eye me. I dropped into my chair limply, and tried to control my excitement. "The man on the last platform of the train," I said.
Now that oath was quite the most solemn and impressive thing of the kind that Dick Haddon and Phil Doon had been able to discover after consulting the highest literary authorities. The quarrel between Dick and Jacker McKnight that originated under the school was quite forgotten in the resulting excitement.
We saw that the dark object was a woman, and clinging around her neck, and screaming with terror, was a beautiful child! At a glance we saw that the woman was dead, and " Here the narrative of our host was suddenly interrupted. McKnight, the miner, who was one of our party, and who had appeared labouring under some excitement during the whole of the recital, suddenly sprang to his feet, exclaiming
"As far as I can see," said McKnight dryly, "we're exactly as far along as we were the day we met at the Carter place. We're not a step nearer to finding our man." "We have one thing that may be of value," I suggested. "He is the husband of a bronze-haired woman at Van Kirk's hospital, and it is just possible we may trace him through her.
It was understood by all that the school would lose prestige and efficiency if Haddon and McKnight were not taken and at once subjected to the rules of the establishment and the rod of the master. The meeting was quite informal. It was held in the bar, and the discussion of the vital matter in hand was concurrent with the absorption of McMahon's beer. Mr.
McKnight went under protest. "I haven't much time," he said, looking at his watch. "I'm to meet Mrs. West and Alison at one. I want you to know them, Lollie. You would like the mother." "Why not the daughter?" I inquired. I touched the little gold bag under the pillow. "Well," he said judicially, "you've always declared against the immaturity and romantic nonsense of very young women "
In the doorway Hotchkiss was a half dozen feet ahead; Richey fell back beside me. He dropped his affectation of gayety, and I thought he looked tired. "Same old Sam, I suppose?" he asked. "Same, only more of him." "I suppose Alison was there? How is she?" he inquired irrelevantly. "Very well. I did not see her this morning." Hotchkiss was waiting near the elevator. McKnight put his hand on my arm.
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