He saw a uniformed official and addressed him, asking where he could find a complete list of the dead and injured. The man silently handed him a paper. James ran his eyes feverishly down the list of names. There it was—Wim—no, no, Wilson. Her name was not there. He raised his eyes questioningly to the official.
"No, that list is not complete," said the man.
He led James away to one or two other uniformed officials, and then to a man who was not in uniform. At length it was arranged; James was to take the first train for Stamford. Some one gave him a pass.
But before he went he telegraphed to Bar Harbor. It was necessary to have conclusive proof that Beatrice was on the train. As he recrossed the concourse, now converted into a happy hunting ground for the reporters, he caught sight of Mrs. Lindenbaum, the anxious mother. She was alone, but the expression on her face left no doubt as to how the day had turned out for her. He stopped and spoke to her:
"Your son is all right, is he?"
"Yes!" She turned toward him a face fairly transfigured with joy. "He wasn't hurt at all—just scratched a little by broken glass. He and my daughter have just gone to telephone to some people.... What do you think—he was the first one in his car to break open a window and let the smoke out! He reached up with his umbrella and smashed it open—that was how he got out. And he dragged out three people who were unconscious...." She stopped and laughed. "You must excuse me—I'm foolish!"
"Not at all," replied James. "I'm so glad—" He started to move on, but the woman stopped him, suddenly remembering.
"But what about—I do hope—" she began.
"No," said James quietly. "I'm sorry to say my news is bad." He had little doubt now as to the verdict, but bad—! Was it? Oh, was it?