That was all, but it was enough to startle even the cool-blooded Yankee for a moment.
The missive was practically the death-warrant of his friends down at Hilton, who were even now preparing for departure on their North Polar trip. Hastily he placed the incriminating sheet in his breast pocket, wondering the while why the conspirators had left the train, instead of going straight through to Stanwich.
Hardly had the thought crossed his mind ere the twain reappeared, and climbed into the carriage. Haverly noted with secret satisfaction that they seemed strangely uneasy, glancing about as though searching for something.
“Lost anything?” he inquired casually, as the train moved off again.
“No,” one of them snarled, but the look with which he favoured the American made that gentleman glad that he carried a six-shooter in his pocket. Ere long the express was once more racing over the country at sixty miles an hour.
The millionaire’s scoundrelly companions seemed by this time to have given up their search, for they settled themselves back against the cushions, muttering together in low tones, which the roar of the train completely drowned. Haverly, whilst apparently studying the flying landscape, contrived to keep his eye upon the pair, who had evidently made up their minds that their fellow-traveller had picked up their lost letter.
At length one of them addressed the American.
“Could you oblige me with a match?” he asked. He produced a cigar-case as he spoke, and extracted one of the three cigars within.
“Pleasure,” muttered the Yankee briefly, offering his match-box with his left hand, while his right closed menacingly about the haft of the weapon in his pocket.
“Thanks,” returned the stranger, “can I offer you a cigar?” and he passed over his case, from which Haverly selected a weed.