At this message, repeated to him by the operator, word for word, Carhart stood thoughtful. Then, “Shut off the despatcher. Wait—tell him Mr. Carhart is much obliged. Shut him off. Now call Paradise. Say to him—can’t you get him?”
“Yes—all right now.”
“Say—‘When did the supply train pass you on Tuesday?’—got that?”
“Yes—one minute. ‘When—did supply—train pass—you—Tuesday?’”
“Now what does he say?”
“‘Supply—train’—he says—‘passed—here Wednesday—two—P.M.—west-bound.’ There, you see, it didn’t leave on Tuesday at all. It’s only a few hours to Paradise from Sherman.”
Carhart had Peet’s message still crumpled in his pocket. He straightened it out and read it again. “All right,” he said to the operator, “that will do.” And as he walked slowly and thoughtfully out into the blazing sunlight he added to himself: “So, Mr. Peet, that’s the sort you are, is it? I think we begin to understand each other.”
“Paul!” It was the gruff voice of Old Vandervelt, low and charged with anger.
“Yes—what?”