"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadly neglected. I mean to say that they have nerve, not nerves."
"By which you mean—?"
"Something that you will need very soon—grit."
"I—I don't quite understand yet, my dear fellow. Why?"
The face of Saunders was serious now. The danger that confronted both of them was no chimera.
"Look here, Griffin," he broke out, "that murderer did this thing under orders. He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, or he will try to put the deed off on someone else. An explanation must be given when the body is discovered in the morning. All was certainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances. Now, you may wager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not far away; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp. You may be sure, too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by. The question is, what story will this fellow tell?"
"You can—ah—search me, Saunders," retorted Mark.
Saunders laughed. Mark had a way of appearing cheerful.
"Come now, that's doing fine. 'Search you,' eh? That is just exactly what the police probably will do."
"Why?"