There was a strange name—Mell or Melody—that the dying man had been at such pains to enunciate. What had Melody to do with the matter? Was it the name of a person? Or an institution? He exercised all his ingenuity in trying to invent a reasonable explanation of this one word. Possibly Krutzmacht had tried to pronounce Mendel or Mendelssohn. Brainard thought there was a firm of German bankers with some such name. Light on the puzzle might be found in the contents of his bag, but at present he did not like to open it. At any rate Berlin must be his next destination.
He pondered all these things at his late breakfast, where in the close-shaded car electric fans buzzed to make a semblance of moving air. The fellow travelers on this train—returning tourists from Southern California resorts—did not interest him as had the varied company on the Overland, and he shut himself up in his compartment with his secret, not even leaving it for luncheon. It seemed that already the cares of property—even of another, unknown person’s property—were beginning to separate him from his fellows, rendering him less eager to make acquaintances, more suspicious than he was by nature. In the present circumstances he preferred to keep to himself. So all that long day, alone in his hot room, he thought, while the train slowly traversed the mighty Arizona plains, arid, limitless, austere, broken here and there by solitary rocky peaks that rose majestically out of the desert into the still, clear atmosphere. It was a stranger land than he had ever dreamed, outside all the world that he knew, remote, mysterious, calm.
He did not open the bag for fear of possible interruption. He thought, and as the hot day wore on into the afternoon he began to lose that sense of security he had had when he caught the train in San Francisco. The burden of the bag became heavier. If he were any judge of newspaper men, that reporter Farson had by this time spread the story of his deeds broadcast over the civilized world. Messages might be speeding past him even now on the wires, directions to intercept his flight at some convenient point farther to the east. He first planned to make for New Orleans as a port of departure for Europe, having altogether abandoned the idea of returning to New York, which probably was the one most dangerous spot for him on the globe. Even New Orleans seemed a desperately long way off. The sooner, he reasoned, he could put an international boundary between himself and Krutzmacht’s enemies, the better would be his chance of reaching Berlin with his plunder.
He examined the crude map in the railroad folder and made out that by the next noon, if the train were on time, he could make connections at Albuquerque in New Mexico with a train for El Paso. To-morrow noon seemed far off, but he concluded that it was the best he could do. Until then he should have to run his chances, and possess himself with patience. The day drew slowly to its conclusion. The sun streamed more horizontally across the arid plain, touching the distant mountains with blood-red tints. A desolate, man-forsaken country! For miles and miles there was not a living being, not a habitation in sight from the railroad. Somewhere far off beyond those purpling mountains lay the romantic land of Mexico, which seemed the proper haven for any kind of lawlessness. Fortunately he was abundantly supplied with ready money. In addition to the large sum he had found in the old wallet he had come across in one of the inner drawers of the safe a canvas bag of gold coin, placed there no doubt by the thrifty German for some emergency such as this when it might not be convenient to get money from a bank. So he had on his person very nearly ten thousand dollars in gold and bills, which ought to suffice for an extended journey. Ready money gave the young man a comfortable sense of security that he had never hitherto experienced for any length of time. . . .
At a division headquarters where the train was changing engines, Brainard with his head out of the window was gazing interestedly at the motley crowd of plainsmen, greasers, and blanketed Indians. The door of his compartment was brusquely thrown open and one of the trainmen demanded:
“What’s your name?”
Brainard jumped back from the window, replying mechanically, “Edgar Brainard—why?”
“Don’t be scared, stranger!” the official replied with a chuckle at Brainard’s startled look. He glanced through his spectacles at a yellow envelope. “I’m lookin’ for a party named Wilky or Wilkins. You ain’t the feller.”
Brainard stepped forward to take the telegram, but the man had already turned away. It flashed over Brainard at once that probably Farson was trying to communicate with him, using the foolish name he had given the reporter half in jest. The friendly newspaper man, grateful for the liberal gift he had received, was perhaps trying to warn him of some possible danger. It was too late now to get possession of the telegram. The conductor was passing through the car, asking the passengers their names and exhibiting the yellow envelope.