Early the next morning when Flash reached the railroad terminal he found it buzzing with activity. He stood in line to buy his ticket, noting that Indianapolis seemed to be the popular destination. Special rates had been offered, and only Indiana passengers were allowed on the streamliner.
Flash swung aboard. Wandering through several cars, he finally came upon his friend, Joe Wells.
“Hello, there,” the newsreel man greeted him. “Let’s go back to the club car and grab a seat before they’re all taken.”
The train began to move. Joe led the way through the corridors. So quietly did the streamliner run that they scarcely were aware of its gathering speed.
At the entrance to the club car, Joe halted suddenly and Flash bumped into him.
“See who is here,” he muttered, indicating a man who sat reading a magazine.
“Albert Povy!” Flash exclaimed in an undertone.
Offering no additional comment, the two photographers entered the car. They took the only vacant chairs which chanced to be directly across from the man who held their attention.
Flash scrutinized the passenger with keen interest. There was something about Povy which fascinated and yet repulsed him. The man was tall, well-built, with a hollow, almost gaunt face. A faint but jagged scar on his left cheek evidently had resulted from an old war wound.
Povy glanced up and met Flash’s steady gaze. He stared hard at the young man for a moment and then glanced away. If he recognized either of the photographers he gave no further sign.