"Go forward," shouted the conductor to the rear brakeman, "and get 'em out of here,—tell McNally we've got the ghost."
The detective released his hold on his captive, and the man sank limp in the corner seat.
The company's surgeon, who happened to be on the car, came over and examined the prisoner. The man had collapsed completely.
When the doctor had revived the handcuffed passenger and got him to sit up and speak, the porter, wild-eyed, burst in and shouted: "De bridge is gone."
A death-like hush held the occupants of the car.
"De hangin' bridge is sho' gone," repeated the panting porter, "an' de engine, wi' McNally in de cab's crouchin' on de bank, like a black cat on a well-cu'b. De watah's roahin' in de deep gorge, and if she drap she gwine drag—"
The doctor clapped his hand over the frightened darky's mouth, and the detective butted him out to the smoking-room.
The conductor explained that the porter was crazy, and so averted a panic.
The detective came back and faced the doctor. "Take off the irons," said the surgeon, and the detective unlocked the handcuffs.
Now the doctor, in his suave, sympathetic way, began to question Bradish; and Bradish began to unravel the mystery, pausing now and again to rest, for the ordeal through which he had just passed had been a great mental and nervous strain.