As I approached the station, a bright light from the operator's window assured me that I should not find the office empty, and coming stealthily toward it, I peered in, to see, seated in the most commodious office chair, Gerald Brown, of our agency, the expected "night operator."
On a lounge opposite the window, lay Charlie Harris asleep.
I tapped softly on the open casement, and keeping myself in the shadow whispered:
"Come outside, Gerry, and don't wake Harris."
The night-operator, who knew the nature of the services required of him in Trafton, and who doubtless had been expecting a visit, arose quietly and came out on the platform with the stealthy tread of a bushman.
After a cordial hand-clasp, and a very few words of mutual inquiry, I told Brown what had happened at the doctor's cottage, and of my suspicions regarding Blake Simpson; and, then, using a leaf from my note-book, and writing by the light from the window, I wrote two messages, to be sent before Harris should awake.
The first was as follows:
Doctor Charles Denham,
No. 300 —— street, N. Y.
Carl Bethel is in extreme danger; requires your professional services. Come at once.