“I guess not,” Jim smiled indulgently. “They can't touch it. Tell me what you know.”
Harvey related his experience, and as one detail followed another Jim's eyebrows came together. He took out his watch and looked at it, then his eye swept the broad row of trains in the gloomy, barnlike station. The hands on the three-sided clock pointed to seven, and the Northern Vestibule Limited began to roll out on its run to Manchester and the West. Suddenly Jim broke in:—
“I'm going to Tillman. Back to-morrow.”
He ran down the platform and swung himself, puffing, upon the rear steps of the receding train. Harvey stared a moment, then slowly walked out to the elevated. He had not yet learned to follow the rapid working of Jim Weeks's mind.
In the meantime Mr. Porter was nervous. Being unsuccessful in his search for Weeks, and seeing the possibility of failure before him, he greeted the hour of five with a frown; but he realized that there was nothing to be done. McNally was on the field and must fight it out alone. It was a quarter after five when he stepped from the elevator at Field's, and confronted a very reproachful young woman.
“Sorry, dear, but I couldn't get away any sooner.”
“What was it, dad? That old railroad?”
“You wouldn't understand it if I told you.”
Katherine frowned prettily.
“That's what you always say. Tell me about it.”