Madison took the cigar from his lips, leaned forward, and peered into Helena's face—then drew back with a low whistle.
"Dead?" he said.
Helena nodded.
"Miss Harvey wants to see you," she said.
"Say," said Madison slowly, "first crack out of the box this looks bad, don't it? If this gets around here without a muffler on it, it might make the railroad companies hang fire with those circulars for excursion rates to Needley—what?"
"I—I think I hate you!" Helena cried out suddenly, passionately. "She's—she's dead—and that's all you think about!"
Madison stared at Helena for a moment calmly.
"Now, look here, Helena," said he quietly,
"don't get excited. Of course I'm sorry—I'm not a brute and I've got feelings—but I can't afford to lose my head. Something's got to be done, and done quick. We don't want this headlined in every paper in the United States to-morrow morning—Thornton wouldn't want it either. You say Miss Harvey wants to see me? Well, that'll help some—she'll probably do as she's told, and—"
Madison paused abruptly, gazed abstractedly at the private car across the tracks on the siding, and pulled at his cigar.