Fully fifty minutes of the ride had been rendered wretched to Emily by these doubts and fears, when the conductor entered to collect the tickets for Hillsborough. The man in front seemed to jerk himself out of his fit of absorption. He fumbled for his oblong blue card, on which Emily espied the lettering "Hillsborough." But the hand which delivered it struck a numbness in her heart. It was broad and fleshy, with the fingernails which are said to betray the professional criminal, and a star worked in black ink on the protuberance between forefinger and thumb. Robert had described this peculiarity in his cell-acquaintance, Bill Dobbs. If it were he, this was a strange situation in which to find the solitary cracksman. Perhaps it was one of his "hospital days."
"Hillsborough! Hillsborough!" came the announcement from both ends of the car, followed by the usual banging of doors. Emily started for the rear exit, which was the nearer. Once alighted, she walked leisurely forward along the platform. A side glance upward revealed Bill Dobbs just leaving his seat and passing to the rear, exactly in her footsteps. When he caught her eye he smiled. It was true. He was pursuing her. Her spirits sank, and she did not quicken her pace. The engine stood champing like an impatient horse beside her, for she was almost abreast of the tender.
"All aboard!" the uniformed trainmen were crying. Emily glanced around. Bill Dobbs was just entering the station door, apparently taking no more notice of her than of the drivers soliciting his custom. But she knew that her least movement was under his cognizance. With a quick jump she placed her foot on the step, and, catching a conductor's hand, remounted the moving train. A backward glance, as she sunk into her seat, discovered Bill Dobbs sauntering up the road.
An interval of regret seized Emily when she reviewed her conduct calmly. Had she, indeed, escaped some unknown danger? Or was she the victim of a girl's foolish illusion? She was beginning to chide herself as a prey to superstition when the realities of her predicament suddenly forced themselves upon her by the reappearance of the conductor.
"What is the next station, please?"
"Elmwood."
"How far is that?"
"Two miles."
Two miles. To be carried two miles beyond Hillsborough into the neighboring township! Possibly the Arnold estate lay midway between, but it was more probable that she would be footsore and spent before she reached the house where Bertha was supposed to be living. There was an extra fare to pay, a brief whirling glimpse of woodland and meadow, and then the engine slacked up again before a cottage-like, rustic station.
A circle of 12-year-olds desisted from their romp to watch the sweet lady approaching them.