The train was soon under headway and tearing along at the rate of forty miles an hour toward Dalton.
Carlos realized that he was incurring a great risk. He might be rushing into the very arms of pursuers; for that there would be pursuers was, of course, not to be doubted. It was even possible that the officer from whom he had escaped had discovered his loss in time to transfer himself to the returning train, the one on which Carlos was now riding. He might lay his hands on him at any moment.
Carlos was aware that he faced this possibility, as also that of there being those present at the Dalton depot who would recognize him. This latter danger, however, he considered not to be imminent, on account of the lateness of the hour.
But he was in a reckless mood, and was not dismayed by the prospect.
The conductor came through the car and touched him on the shoulder, at the same time peering into his face.
“Did I see your ticket, sir?”
“No; I have none. Can I go through on this train to New York?”
“Yes. Where did you get on?”
Carlos hesitated.
“At Hillsdale,” he said, after a pause. “I did not have time to buy a ticket. What is the fare?”