Carleton dropped into his chair, his gray eyes hard and full of pain.
"I don't understand, Tommy," he said heavily. "It's almost as though you knew it was going to happen."
Regan came across the floor and stood in front of the desk.
"I did," he said in a low way. "I think I was almost certain of it."
Carleton pulled himself forward with a jerk in his chair.
"Do you know what you are saying, Tommy?" he asked sharply.
"I'll tell you," Regan said, in the same low way. "I went over to the roundhouse to-night before Dan took the 304 out. I didn't see Dan anywhere about, and I asked Dawes where he was. Dawes said he had gone back to the fitters' benches to look for some washers. I walked on past the tender and I found him there down on the floor on his knees by one of the benches—but he wasn't looking for any washers. He was praying."
With a sharp exclamation, Carleton pushed back his chair, and, standing, leaned over the desk toward Regan.
Regan swallowed a lump in his throat—and shook his head.
"He didn't see me," he said brokenly, "he didn't know I was there. He was praying aloud. I heard what he said. It's been ringing in my head all night, word for word, while I was trying to play with those"—he jerked his hand toward the scattered cards on the desk between them. "I can hear him saying it now. It's the queerest prayer I ever heard; and I guess he prayed the way he lived—as though he was kind of intimate with God."