For a minute he sat there, tensely posed in an attitude of ease. Then, he took the sheet of letter paper from his pocket, and laid it on the desk.
Rapidly Laird addressed an envelope, blotted it, put the letter in, and stamped it. The glue from the stamp smeared over his lower lip as he licked it with sharp, uncertain movements.
Stephen Laird jumped up from the desk, and started to walk forward in the car. Suddenly he stopped, went back to the writing desk, and, picking up the blotter that he had used, thrust it into his pocket.
It was a new sheet of white blotting paper, and had retained an almost perfect reproduction of what Laird had written. Drops of sweat appeared upon his forehead, as though in horror at a near escape.
The sweat made a mark on the man’s forehead stand out in relief. It was a red mark — almost as red as blood. There was something awe-striking about it.
LAIRD started toward the front end of the car again. As he neared the corridor, the porter appeared, blinking drowsily. Laird handed the Negro a dollar bill.
“How soon can you mail a letter for me?” he asked in a low, nervous, voice.
“Next stop is Truckee, suh,” answered the porter.
“How soon?” was the sharp retort.
“Bout fo’ty minutes, suh. Train goes downhill pretty soon, now.”