But the landscape, over which night was fast settling, presented no familiar features. He pulled out his watch, and by the lateness of the hour, he knew that he must be far from his destination.
Suddenly the reflection in the window of his hat and its pasteboard ornament caught his eye.
He pulled out the ticket. It was for Carnmoor, a place he had never before heard of.
“They meant to get me far enough out of the way,” he growled savagely. “If it hadn’t been for this the officials would have turned me out at the first place they took tickets,” and he crumpled the offending card in his hand. The slowing down of the train caused him to glance once more through the glass. Soon they swept into a station. The glimmering gas-jets, shining feebly through the gathering dusk, revealed the name of the place.
The conspirators had timed his recovery to a nicety. It was Carnmoor! Hardly waiting for the motion of the carriages to cease, Haverly leapt out, and made straight for the telegraph office.
If he could not warn his friends in person, he could wire them.
Rushing into the office, the American startled the sleepy operator by bawling for a form.
“Tick that off,” he cried, after he had scribbled a message, “and lively,” and over the wires there flashed this warning:
“Danger! For God’s sake, beware. Plan to capture the submarine to-night. Will explain when I come.—Haverly.”
Somewhat easier in his mind, the millionaire strolled forth to inquire about the next train to Stanwich.