About the next bend of the road, a little boy rushed from a wayside camp which looked strangely deserted for supper-time of Sunday afternoon. He waved both arms before his face. 241
“Hey, mister, take me to the wreck!”
“What wreck, kid?”
“The five-ten is over the trestle, and they went off and left me!”
Judge Tiffany took the information calmly, even selfishly. “I wonder if we’d better turn back and give it up to-night, or go on?”
Eleanor spoke with a catch of the breath, a drawn-in tone.
“Go on! Oh, tell him to go on!”
The Judge peered at her. She was pale, but, as always in her crises, the curtain of inscrutability made her face a mask. “Oh, do go on!” she repeated. Then, as though it all needed explanation, she added:
“We might be able to help!”
“Drive on, then—fast!”