“Tally!” said the big man on the opposite side of the table. “I’ve been having the same kind of bad luck. I can’t locate Stillings.”
“Did you try his house?”
“I did that first. His family is out of town, and he has been stopping at the club. But nobody there seems to know anything about him. A little after midnight I found your division detective, young Tarbell, and put him on the job. We’re needing Stillings, and needing him badly.”
“Tarbell hasn’t reported back yet?”
“Not yet; it is beginning to look as if he had dropped out, too. But the day is still young. You’d better go upstairs and get a little sleep. I’ll stay on deck and call you if you are needed.”
Maxwell had finished his simple breakfast and he took the good advice. It was nine hours later, and the electrics were twinkling yellow in the sunset pinks and grays flooding the quiet Sunday evening streets and the railroad plaza, when he came down and found Sprague just ready to go in to dinner.
“News!” demanded the superintendent eagerly. “I had no idea of wasting the day this way.”
Sprague made him wait until they were seated at a table for two in the corner of the café.
“The Copah fight is over, and the T-C. people have broken into your yards with their new track,” the expert announced briefly. “Benson had to give up and go to bed about noon, but Leckhard has kept us posted. The track is in, and frogged to a connection with your main line; and the entire attacking force has camped down at the two points of trespass; presumably to keep you and Leckhard from interfering and tearing up their job. Move Number One, whatever it may mean, is a move accomplished.”
“I can’t understand; I can’t begin to understand!” said Maxwell, in despair. And then: “No word yet from Ford?”