Eaton started at the first call of the name; he sat up and faced about.
"Mr. Hillward! Telegram for Mr. Lawrence Hillward!"
The conductor was opposite Section Three; Eaton now waited tensely and delayed until the conductor was past; then putting his head out of his curtains and assuring himself that the car was otherwise empty as when he had seen it last, he hailed as the conductor was going through the door.
"What name? Who is that telegram for?"
"Mr. Lawrence Hillward."
"Oh, thank you; then that's mine." He put his hand out between the curtains to take the yellow envelope.
Connery held back. "I thought your name was Eaton."
"It is. Mr. Hillward—Lawrence Hillward—is an associate of mine who expected to make this trip with me but could not. So I should have telegrams or other communications addressed to him. Is there anything to sign?"
"No, sir—train delivery. It's not necessary."
Eaton drew his curtains close again and ripped the envelope open; but before reading the message, he observed with alarm that his pajama jacket had opened across the chest, and a small round scar, such as that left by a high-powered bullet penetrating, was exposed. He gasped almost audibly, realizing this, and clapped his hand to his chest and buttoned his jacket. The message—nine words without signature—lay before him: