Joe nudged Flash. Raising a newspaper to shield his face, he called attention to a middle-aged man of military bearing who was writing a letter at the desk.
“Major Creighton Hartgrove,” he whispered. “Retired from the army. It’s rumored, though, that he’s doing secret work for the government.”
As Wells spoke, Hartgrove arose and left the club car. A moment later, Albert Povy put aside his magazine and followed. Or at least, Flash gained the impression that the man seemed to be interested in the Major’s movements.
He ventured such an opinion to Joe, who made light of his observation.
“You’re as imaginative as ever, Flash,” he scoffed. “I shouldn’t have told you lurid tales about Povy’s reputation.”
Several times during the day as the streamliner raced westward, Flash caught glimpses of the two men. It struck him as significant that usually the pair were in the same car. More than ever he became convinced that Major Hartgrove was being watched and was himself aware of it.
Joe Wells had scant interest in either of the men, and as the day wore on, slept much of the time. When a colored steward gave the first call for dinner, he shook himself awake.
“Let’s amble into the diner before the big rush starts, Flash.”
They walked forward through two cars, and had just entered the third where Major Hartgrove sat, when the train’s air brakes suddenly were applied.
“Now what?” gasped Joe, clutching a seat for support.