Denials were quick and emphatic. Quite definitely they had not seen Joe Hamsa on the Limited.
Bob shook his head. That was strange for he was sure that it was Hamsa’s voice he had heard in the car just before he lost consciousness.
“Tell us what happened,” urged the train conductor, who was more than a little disturbed at the misfortunes which were befalling the passengers on the Limited that night. One federal agent had been taken suddenly ill, another passenger had disappeared, the train had been flagged down at a lonely station for a telegram, and now the second federal agent had been found unconscious in the observation car. It was, admitted the trainman, too much for him to untangle.
Bob felt more like talking now, and he told his story briefly.
“I turned toward the forward end of the car just in time to see some one’s hand groping around the corner for the light switch. I jumped for the switch, but the lights were snapped out before I could reach it.”
Bob paused for a moment, then went on.
“I crashed into the steel partition at the end of the lounge section of the car and fell down. Before I could get to my feet whoever had turned off the lights snapped on a small but very brilliant flash light and focused it on my eyes. Before I could get to my feet there was a sharp impact on my face. It was just as though some one had struck me a sharp blow. After that a wave of nausea swept over me and that was the last thing I remember until a few minutes ago.”
The conductor’s worry was reflected on his frank face.
“The flagman, coming back from the head end, found the car in darkness and when he turned on the lights he almost fell over you. I was pretty worried, but the porter told me that you acted like your friend this afternoon and I knew he was coming around all right so it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.”
“Just before I lost consciousness,” went on Bob, “I heard some one laugh and I would have sworn it was the voice of Hamsa, the man who has disappeared from lower nine.”