Steele tore open the envelope and read:
I am sorry about the special train, but Blair had telegraphed from Warmington ordering it before your wire came. I have arranged, however, that Joe will return at once for you, as soon as he has landed Blair in Bunkerville. This will make no difference in the negotiations; Miss Slocum has promised to be away from home when Blair calls, and will see you first. I think you’ve got the inside track, although I surmise the young woman is well aware that she holds the key to the situation. I don’t know if she’s after all the money she can get, or whether there is something of friendliness in her action. I rather suspect the latter, and I think you can conclude negotiations before she sees Blair at all.
Yours most sincerely,
James P. Hazlett.
John Steele gave no expression to the annoyance he felt at missing the special. He distrusted the lawyer’s optimism, and like a flash resolved to be in Bunkerville as soon as his antagonist. Blair had stepped down from his private car, asked the station-master where the special was to be found, and quickly ordered his car to be placed on a side track. When he had entered the Bunkerville composition car, and Joe had started up his wheezy engine, Steele darted from the shadow of the station, caught the car and sat down on the rear steps outside, well concealed from the sight of anyone unless that person stood by the end window. All went well until they were about five miles from Bunkerville, when Steele thought he recognised a lady’s figure on the highway ahead, and forgetting that he might expose himself to the sharp eyes of Blair, he rose to his feet, clutched the stanchions, and leaned forward. An instant later the rear door was thrown open, a foot was planted energetically in the small of Steele’s back, and that young man went hurtling down the embankment, head over heels. There were no half measures with Blair in a crisis like this.
Steele sat up bruised and dazed, not knowing whether he was hurt seriously, or had escaped practically unscathed, which latter proved to be the case. It seemed to him, as he fell through the air, he heard a woman’s scream. When he was somewhat stupidly debating whether this was real or imaginary, his doubts were solved by a voice he recognised.
“Oh, Mr. Steele, are you hurt? What a brutal thing for that stout villain to have done!”
“Why, Miss Dorothy, you of all persons! And here was I trying to sneak into Bunkerville to see you first. I thought you were teaching school?”
“Not on Saturdays, Mr. Steele,” said the girl, laughing. “I see, after all, you are not injured.”
“I’m all right, I think. Fortunately Joe doesn’t run sixty miles an hour. Dorothy, I want you to marry me and come to Chicago.”