"Got there; but—read for yourself."
With a face that paled even in the dim light of the station, and lips that trembled under his moustache, the colonel read, handed it to me without a word, and turned away.
This was the message:
"New Orleans, Tuesday.
"Colonel H. Summers, Sandbrook Station, M. and C. R. R., Alabama.
"Arrived yesterday. Vinton dangerously ill; delirious. Post surgeons in charge. If possible, come.
"Frank Amory."
Then we three looked at one another with faces sad and blanched. Harrod was the first to speak.
"May I take your horse, Billy?"
"Yes, and the house and barn if it'll help."
"Then I'm off for home at once, for Pauline."
The delay of that train was a blessing in disguise.