The conductor, meanwhile, had gone to a Pullman car in the rear, where a man in plain clothes was lying back on a seat, apparently engaged in an aimless, leisurely scrutiny of the occupants of the car.
"Jack," said the conductor, "there's a slip of a girl in the day car—poor clothes, shawl bundle, no money, won't tell where she comes from, making a great fuss about going to Ciscasset, looks like an emigrant."
"All right," said Jack, laconically, then he gave an imperceptible nod toward a trio of well-dressed young men engaged in card playing. "Want to see me nab that New York jeweller's clerk?"
"Yep," said the conductor.
"Got any telegrams in your pocket?"
"Two."
"Lend me one, and sit down here a minute."
Jack got up, the conductor took the vacated seat, and waited one, two, three minutes, and then Jack reappeared from between the curtains of the drawing-room at the rear of the car.
"A telegram for H.J. Bolingbroke," he called, in a loud voice; "any passenger of that name in this car?"
The youngest of the three men playing cards involuntarily raised his head, started from his seat, half extended his hand, then drew back.