"Only what I say; that the man knew his business. He is no ordinary hobo; he is more likely in your class, or mine."
Lidgerwood ground his heel into the gravel, and with the feeling that he was wasting precious time of Dawson's which should go into the track-clearing, asked another question.
"Fred, tell me; you've known John Judson longer than I have: do you trust him—when he's sober?"
"Yes." The answer was unqualified.
"I think I do, but he talks too much. He is over here, somewhere, to-night, shadowing the man who may have done this. He—and the man—came down on 205 this evening. I saw them both board the train at Angels as it was pulling out."
Dawson looked up quickly, and for once the reticence which was his customary shield was dropped.
"You're trusting me, now, Mr. Lidgerwood: who was the man? Gridley?"
"Gridley? No. Why, Dawson, he is the last man I should suspect!"
"All right; if you think so."
"Don't you think so?"