"No chance," and Wren laughed with an amusement that was unaffected. "Nothing like that in our family, I'm afraid!"
Mrs. Fowler accompanied him to the door, and Jimmy Wren congratulated himself upon a very graceful exit. When the door had closed behind him and he was in the elevator, he uttered a long sigh of relief.
"There's an extra fare train on the Pennsylvania to-night," he reflected. "I can make it, connect at Terre Haute, and get into Evansville to-morrow morning—good! And I sure hope Mrs. Armstrong can make some sense out of this affair—more, at least, than I can! But Slosson's the nigger in the woodpile, and maybe she can pull him out. Whew! I've got some confessing to do and no mistake!"
His smile was rueful at the thought.
CHAPTER IV
Jimmy Wren made his train without difficulty that evening. He spent half an hour in the diner and then made his way forward to the club car, anticipating a smoke and an hour of talk before retiring. To his infinite disgust, he found the car crowded.
As he stood beside the magazine rack and scanned the smoke-filled body of the car, he was suddenly aware that most of the men were amusedly watching one of their number—and Jimmy Wren, following the general gaze, found himself looking at the flushed features of Pete Slosson.
Obviously having ordered innocuous drinks for himself and a protesting fellow-traveler, Slosson was putting into the drinks a heavy "stick" from a large pocket-flask. It was his maudlin ostentation that had drawn all eyes, in tolerant amusement, for he was flourishing the flask and delivering a general address upon prohibition, while inviting all and sundry to join his libations.
Uttering a grunt of contempt, Jimmy Wren turned and retraced his steps to the rear of the train. Gaining the observation platform, he found himself alone, and settled down in a corner chair. He lighted his cigar and stared out into the night across the rails that flashed in the track of the train.