“Get ahead and see if he’s there,” ordered Bob and the conductor hurried away.
Bob threw back the curtains in the berth and looked for some evidence of a struggle for he was convinced in his own mind that Tully had never left the berth of his own free will. For one thing Tully had been too ill to get up and do any walking on the train.
The conductor returned promptly. There was no sign of Tully in the head end of the Pullman.
Bob rummaged through the sheets and blankets on the bed and his hands suddenly came on something firm. He drew the object out of the bedding and gazed at it under the rays of the berth light which he had turned on. It was a leather covered blackjack.
“This spells trouble in capital letters,” said Bob as he drew out a clean handkerchief and turned the blackjack over. “Some one slugged Tully and then carried him out of his berth. This train is haunted.”
“I’m beginning to believe so myself,” agreed the conductor. “Who could have carried him away?”
“There’s only one answer to that—Hamsa,” asserted Bob. “What I want to know is what happened to Tully?”
The conductor shook his head in glum perplexity. Events were happening too swiftly for him to comprehend. First valuable papers had been stolen, then a gun, and a federal agent had disappeared from his berth. The trainman would welcome the end of the division and his run.
The brakeman, coming back from the head end on his rounds, stopped in the Pullman.
“One of you fellows leave the vestibule door up ahead open?” he asked.