"To-morrow morning. The last one left here fifteen minutes ago."
"How far is it to Harrisburg?"
"Only about ten miles. You've got a car out there, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Drive into town, then. You can't get another train to-night."
The station agent laughed.
"You're way after train time, anyway," he remarked. "The train that just left was forty minutes late. They were having trouble with repair work on the trestle. Had to flag the train at a little station about six miles up the line. Held it there more than half an hour."
The whole of Steve Cronin's fiendish scheme unfolded itself to Harry as he drove, half dazed, along the road to Harrisburg. Helpless, in the touring car on the railroad crossing, he had been left for what promised to be certain destruction. The fact that the train was to be held for thirty minutes at the station before the crossing was something that Steve Cronin had not known.
Harry had regained consciousness in the nick of time. Yet he was still groggy, and the lights of the city streets danced before his eyes as he drove into Harrisburg. He managed to locate the station. He left the touring car in a parking space.
There was a sleeping car in the station, waiting to be attached to a through train bound for New York.