“I see,” said Sprague thoughtfully; “or rather, I’d like to see. Maybe, before I go home, you’ll take a little time off some evening, Archer, and drive me out to this road-house. It’s a free-for-all, isn’t it?”
Tarbell grinned. “All you got to do is to give the barkeep’ the high sign and go in and blow yourself. Anybody’s money’s as good as anybody else’s, to Bart.”
“All right; we’ll put that down as one of our small recreations, after this dead-man muddle is straightened out for Mr. Maxwell. Is this Brewster we’re coming to?”
It was; and when the train shrilled to a stand at the station the company ambulance was waiting to take the wounded express messenger out to the hospital. Also, there was a young man from The Tribune office, who was anxious to get the latest story of the sensational hold-up of the “Flying Plainsman.” Tarbell was detailed to give the reporter the facts in the case, so far as they had developed, and Maxwell and his guest climbed the stair to the despatcher’s room in the second story. Connolly was rattling his key in the sending of a train-order when they entered, but he “broke” long enough to hand the superintendent a freshly written telegram.
It was from McCarty, the “Plainsman” conductor, and it was dated from Angels.
“To R. Maxwell, G. S.,
“Brewster:
“Can’t find that anybody lost anything. Hold-up in Pullmans was probably meant to keep passengers bluffed while the others went through express-car.
“McCarty.”
Sprague nodded slowly when the telegram was handed him. “That is what I suspected; in fact, I was morally certain of it, but I thought it would do no harm to make sure.” Then he turned to the chubby despatcher who had finished sending his train-order. “Mr. Connolly, has any one been here to ask questions about this hold-up—since we left, I mean?”