“Well?” grunted Regan, none too cordially.
“I’d like you to come over to Mr. Carleton’s office with me.”
There was something in Marley’s voice, feverish, impelling, something in his face, that stopped the impatient question that sprang to Regan’s lips. He looked at the ungainly, grotesque figure of the wiper for an instant curiously, then without a word led the way out of the shops.
They traversed the yard in silence, climbed the stairs in the station, and entered the super’s room. Marley closed the door and stood with his back against it.
Carleton, at his desk, looked from one to the other in surprise.
“Hello,” said he. “What’s up?”
The master mechanic jerked his thumb at Marley, and appropriated a chair.
“He wanted me to come over. I don’t know what for.”
Carleton turned inquiringly to the wiper.
“What is it?” he demanded.