Carleton led—and then Regan, with a sweep of his hand, shot his cards into the center of the table.
"It's no good," he said gruffly, getting up. "I can't play the blamed game to-night, I——" He stopped suddenly and turned his head, as a chair scraped sharply in the despatchers' room next door.
A step sounded in the hall, the super's door was flung open, and Spence put in his head.
One glance at the despatcher, and Carleton was on his feet.
"What's the matter, Spence?" he asked, quick and hard.
Regan hadn't moved—but Regan spoke now, answering the question that was addressed to the despatcher, and answering it in a strangely assertive, absolute, irrefutable way.
"The local," he said. "Number Forty-seven. Dan MacCaffery's dead."
Both men stared at him in amazement—and Spence, sort of unconsciously, nodded his head.
"Yes," said Spence, still staring at Regan. "There was some sort of engine trouble just west of Big Eddy in the Beaver Cañon. I haven't got the rights of it yet, only that somehow MacCaffery got his engine stopped just in time to keep the train from going over the bridge embankment—and went out doing it. There's no one else hurt. Dawes, the fireman, and Conductor Neale walked back to Big Eddy. I've got them on the wire now. Come into the other room."
Regan stepped to the door mechanically, and, with Carleton behind him, followed Spence into the despatchers' room. There, Carleton, tight-lipped, leaned against the table; Regan, his face like stone, took his place at Spence's elbow, as the despatcher dropped into his chair.