Connolly looked his astonishment and nodded an affirmative.
“Two men from out of town, weren’t they?” Sprague suggested.
Again the despatcher nodded, and it was only his respect for the big man that kept him from asking how the incident could possibly be known to one who had been thirty miles away at the moment of its happening.
“Go on and tell us about it,” Sprague directed; and at this Connolly found his tongue.
“It was them two fellows that are operating the Molly Baldwin mine, Calthrop and Higgins. They’d heard of the hold-up through the operator at Little Butte, they said, and they drove down in their auto. They seemed to be a whole lot stirred up about the taking of Murtrie’s body; said they felt responsible to his friends in the East. They wanted to know particularly what we were doing about it, and if there was any chance of our catching up with the body-snatchers.”
Sprague waved his cigar in token of his complete satisfaction. Then he went abruptly to something else.
“Mr. Connolly, where can you catch that eastbound train again for us by wire?”
Connolly glanced at his train-sheet.
“She’s due at Arroyo in eight minutes. It ain’t a stop, but I can have the operator flag her down.”
“Good. Do it, and send this message to McCarty, conductor. Are you ready?” And when the despatcher, quickly calling the station in question, signalled his readiness, Sprague went on, dictating slowly: “‘Hold your train and have Calmaine, chief clerk, come to the wire.’ Sign Mr. Maxwell’s name—that’s all right, isn’t it, Maxwell?”