Wilkins shook his head.
“How much did you tell that young fellow of our conversation?” questioned McNally.
“Smith? Nothing but just what he told you. I said I thought he was the man you told me about.”
“What does he look like?”
“Big man—straight dark hair. I took these out of his pockets.”
They were a handful of papers, and McNally took them eagerly. “That's something like,” he said.
It was too dark to make out anything, and he struck a match. The crackle was followed by another sound from the thicket, as though a man had moved suddenly and violently. McNally started and dropped the match, glancing suspiciously toward the spot whence the sound came.
“It's only the boys,” said Wilkins. “Here, I'll give you a light.”
As he sheltered the flickering match-light with his hands, McNally glanced over the papers. One of them he found by unfolding to be a map of the railroad. There were some memoranda, scrawled and unintelligible, and last of all, what appeared to be a note in a crumpled blue envelope, bearing a week-old postmark. He scrutinized it closely, and then rubbed his soft hands over it. There was the caricature of a smile on his face.
“That's all the light I need. He's the man.”