"He wasn't killed by accident," he repeated hoarsely. "He was murdered! That's why he haunts the crossing. He can't rest."
"Murdered?"
"Yes," Joe nodded grimly. Then, loosening his grip, he went to the side of the cab and peered forward into the darkness. "We're gettin' near," he muttered. "We're gettin' near the place, but we can't go on. She can't go safe over the crossing to-night."
Sergeant Silk blew the whistle, asking for a signal. He did not know that he was still many miles from the siding. He turned to speak to the fireman, who was at work among the coals. When he looked back again, Joe Halkett had slipped forward and had raised his hand to shut off steam.
"Stop!" shouted Silk, seizing his arm. "Do you think you can play with this train? She's going on, and at the same speed, until I get a signal, though there were a score of haunted crossings in the way. Stand back!"
He thrust the man aside. But Joe renewed his grip. His hard face was working with terror and his eyes were starting out of his head.
"I murdered him!" he panted. And by the light of the fireman's lamp Silk could see great beads of agony on his forehead. He went on jerkily, his voice rising sharp and wild as he told his fearful story of a brutal vengeance.
But Sergeant Silk flung him aside, not heeding him, thinking only that the fate of the racing train and the lives of scores of human beings depended upon what happened in the next few minutes.
"I dragged him to the crossing," Joe went on. "I laid him across the line. There was a train due in three minutes. This train—this engine. They thought it was accident. You—you—thought so, too. But it wasn't. I did it—I!"
His voice rose to a shriek. Then he crept to Silk's side.