Mr. Glenning took from his vest-pocket a small, red book with indexed margin, opened it about the middle, ran his finger down the edge, stopped toward the foot of the page and said:
“No answer. Any charge? No? Thank you.”
The audience gave vent to its relief in a relaxing stir and rustle. Mr. Glenning picked up his newspaper and began to read. The engine whistled two sharp warnings, the wheels slipped once or twice on the icy rails, the whispering of the snowflakes hushed and the inmates of the flying Pullman once more forgot each other.
When the train reached Albany the last passenger to leave the car picked up the telegram which Mr. Glenning had crumpled and thrown upon the floor. But his curiosity was only partly satisfied by reading:
Mr. John Glenning,
Passenger on No. 44.
Effervescent Albany.
Had he possessed Mr. Glenning’s code he would not have been much wiser, for the translated message simply read as follows:
The party wanted is in Albany.