The car was uncomfortably warm. There was a drowsiness about the air that made it difficult to keep the eyes open.
At any rate, that was how Detective Jones felt.
He tried to fasten his attention on a particularly thrilling newspaper story, but the letters danced before his eyes; his eyes closed; he was asleep.
Parks emitted a grunt that might mean anything, then stretching out his legs and resting his head on the back of the seat, he followed his escort’s example and closed his eyes.
The train sped on. Passengers came and went, but Detective Jones still slept.
Mr. Parks seemed to be asleep, too, but there was no one more awake than he at that moment.
“The drugged cigar has done its work.”
This was the thought that surged in his brain. He mentally repeated the phrase over and over again, then cautiously he opened his eyes.
Just across the aisle were two Italian workmen, too much engrossed in reciting their individual woes to notice anything else.
Over his shoulder he got a glimpse of a commercial man, studying his notebook. There was no danger to be apprehended from this quarter.