“Yes. What neighborhood is this?”
“We are just coming into Kentown. Here is the station.”
As the man spoke, they rolled into a long, narrow milk depot. Without waiting to see if the train would come to a stop, Bob called out a good-night and sprang off.
He met but three men at the depot, and all of these were so busy handling milk-cans that they could spare no time to hear what he might have to say.
Finally the young photographer asked if there was a constable in town, and he was directed to one Aaron Dimler, who lived but a few rods from the depot.
Bob had a hard time arousing Dimler, but once aroused the constable was eager to join the youth in a search for the scar-faced man.
“We had better walk up the track to where he jumped off the freight,” said the constable. “Then I’ll be better able to judge of the direction he took.”
So the two half-walked, half-ran up the track until Bob called a halt.
“Is this the spot?” asked the constable.
“As near as I can judge it is,” returned Bob.