"It was a pleasure," said the dark man courteously. He had taken off his hat, and they saw a curious scar, shaped like a large, red butterfly, high up on his forehead under his hair. "I am delighted to have been of any assistance to her."
He would not wait for supper—the next train would be in and he must not miss it.
"There are people looking for me," he said with his curious smile. "They will be much disappointed if they do not find me."
He had gone, and the whistle of the Starmont freight had blown before Grandma remembered that he had not given her his name and address.
"Dear, oh dear, how are we ever going to send that money to him?" she exclaimed. "And he so nice and goodhearted!"
Grandma worried over this for a week in the intervals of looking after Delia. One day William George came in with a large city daily in his hands. He looked curiously at Grandma and then showed her the front-page picture of a man, clean-shaven, with an oddly shaped scar high up on his forehead.
"Did you ever see that man, Mother?" he asked.
"Of course I did," said Grandma excitedly. "Why, it's the man I met on the train. Who is he? What is his name? Now, we'll know where to send—"
"That is Mark Hartwell, who shot Amos Gray at Charlotteville three weeks ago," said William George quietly.
Grandma looked at him blankly for a moment.