The ten or fifteen minutes that elapsed before the train passed the station at Dalton, were occupied by the assemblage at the depot in talking about the murder and the prisoner.
Carlos felt himself the object of scrutiny and remark. He bore the ordeal as best he could, averting his eyes from the staring, chattering crowd.
There was one stranger present—a man rather below the medium size, with a black mustache, and wearing a light-colored business suit. In appearance he was gentlemanly and unobtrusive. Yet, notwithstanding his rather retiring manner, he managed to get into conversation with the officer who had Carlos in charge. After some introductory remarks he said:
“I am a little in your line myself.”
“Is that so? How?” asked the officer.
“I am connected with the New York detective service,” and he lifted the lapel of his vest, thus disclosing a glistening police shield underneath.
“Ah! Are you working up a case here?”
“Oh, no! I wouldn’t let my occupation be known if I was. I am off duty, and thought I would run up and take the country air for a few days.”
“Yes? Well, you’ll find Dalton a very pleasant stopping-place.”
“So I should judge. You people here have managed this case very well.”