“The Midnight Flyer?”
“Yes. Here comes the old mill. Wait. By Marks is not the fellow for this job, Ralph,” and the detective shook his head.
“He’s all right!” exclaimed the young train dispatcher hastily. He was determined to commend the aged engineer after this, not criticize him. “I know that nobody could take that express through to Hammerfest much better than he does. And I am the fellow who makes the schedule.”
“Indeed?” rejoined his friend, with a curious look at Ralph. “Suppose you were pulling this train?”
“Humph! Think I would be any better than an experienced old engineer like By? What nonsense, Mr. Adair!”
But the latter only laughed. They were at the head of the train. There was a little group of station employees and others on the platform. Ralph was watching the slowly backing locomotive. He saw the pallid face of Marks thrust out of the window as the great machine backed against the head coach. The red spots in Mark’s cheeks, Ralph thought, were slowly fading out.
The couplings came together with a crunch of steel. The locomotive was stopped on the instant—a pretty connection. Nobody but a skilled operative could have done it.
“He’s all right, old as he is!” muttered Ralph, as the two firemen leaped down to make the air-hose and water-hose connections on either side of the tender.
The train dispatcher walked forward on the engineer’s side of the cab. He looked up again at the old man in the window. Then he cried out and leaped up the steps to the locomotive’s deck.
Byron Marks’ head had fallen upon the window sill. His eyes were still staring, wide open. But the color had now entirely receded from his cheeks. When Ralph put a tentative hand upon the old man’s shoulder the torso of his body wabbled dreadfully.