The door from the platform opened and closed, as the train pulled out again, a man stepped into the operator's room—and in the darkness the Hawk smiled appreciatively. It was MacVightie, and Mac-Vightie's thin lips were drawn tighter than usual, and the brim of the slouch hat, though pulled far forward, did not hide the scowl upon MacVightie's countenance.
“Well, you're here all right, Lanson, eh?” he flung out brusquely. “Nothing yet, by any chance, of course?”
Lanson, from a chair at the operator's elbow, nodded a greeting.
“Not yet,” he said.
MacVightie was glancing sharply around him.
“Martin,” he ordered abruptly, “close those two ticket wickets!”
The operator rose obediently, and pulled down the little windows that opened, one on each side of the office, on the men's and women's waiting rooms.
“What's that door there?” demanded MacVightie, pointing toward the rear room.
“Just a place I had partitioned off for stores and small express stuff,” Martin answered. “There's no back entrance.”
“All right, then,” said MacVightie. He pulled up a chair for himself on the other side of the operator, as Martin returned to his seat. “You know what you're here for, Martin—what you've to do? Mr. Lanson has told you?”