“Who’s the telegram for?” asked the conductor.
“Bob Houston in lower five, car 43,” replied the agent. “Let’s get going.”
“That’s all right, I’ll sign for the telegram,” said Bob. “My name is Houston and I’m in lower five, car 43.”
The agent looked suspiciously at him as though he had not expected anyone as youthful looking as Bob.
“I’ve got instructions to see a certain badge before I turn over this message,” he said.
Bob reached into his inner coat pocket, drew forth his billfold, and produced the badge.
“That’s right,” nodded the agent. “Sign this slip.”
He produced a pencil and Bob, writing in the light from the headlight, signed his name.
“Thanks,” said the agent. Then he turned to the conductor. “All right. Now you can tell that hoghead up there to pick up his wheels and get the string of varnished gondolas out of here. I want to go to sleep.”
The conductor snorted, but he was too anxious to get back to his train to make a reply.
The vestibule of the forward coach had been opened by the brakeman. They climbed aboard and the engineer whistled off the moment they were on the train.
Bob looked at the damp envelope in his hands and suddenly he felt himself shaking slightly. For some reason the Southern Limited had been stopped at a lonely railroad outpost to deliver this message to him. That it was important there could be no doubt for he had been forced to identify himself before he could obtain the message.
The coach was less than half full and Bob dropped down in the nearest seat and ripped open the telegram, looking first at the signature. It was from Waldo Edgar, chief of the division of investigation.
Bob read the message quickly and thoroughly:
“This is to warn you that a man known as Joe Hamsa, traveling south with you on Limited, is now believed linked with gang we want. Watch Hamsa closely and take no chances with him as his record is a ruthless one. In view of this, contact Merritt Hughes and Condon Adams when you reach Jacksonville.”
Bob read the telegram again, folded it carefully and placed it in an inside pocket with the feeling that even though Joe Hamsa had disappeared from the train, they would meet and that their meeting would not be far in the future.
Chapter X
IN CAR 43
★
Bob walked back through the Southern Limited with many things running through his mind. His suspicions concerning Joe Hamsa had been confirmed by the telegram in his pocket.
The rôle of diamond salesman was an ideal one for Hamsa to assume. In that capacity he would be able to go around the country selling the smuggled diamonds and if he appeared to be working for a legitimate firm of wholesale diamond merchants there was little doubt that he would go unmolested by the federal agents.
Bob wondered just how the department had obtained the information on Hamsa which had led to the telegram to him. Perhaps his uncle would be able to enlighten him when he arrived in Jacksonville the next morning.
The young federal agent entered car 43 and stopped at lower five. He parted the curtains and looked down at Tully, who was sound asleep. Tully was breathing so deeply that Bob hesitated to awaken him and tell him about the message. If Tully was still asleep when Bob went to bed, there would still be time to awaken him.
Bob went on back to lower nine, which Hamsa was to have occupied. There was nothing on the seats, but Bob caught a glimpse of a bag sticking from under the forward seat and he leaned down and pulled a small bag out.
The case was of well worn brown leather securely fastened with two small but sturdy padlocks. There was something soft inside, but the leather was too thick for his fingers to ascertain just what the contents might be.
The porter came through the car and stopped.
“Haven’t seen anything more of the man in lower nine?” asked Bob.
The Pullman employe shook his gray head.
“No sir, and I don’t know whether to make up his berth.”
“You might as well save yourself work. I don’t believe I’d make it up,” advised Bob, and the porter, deciding to accept the counsel, went on up the aisle.
Bob walked back to the observation and lounge car. There was only one passenger who had not retired to his berth in the forward Pullmans. He was an elderly man, thin, but with an expression on his face which gave one a feeling of tremendous vitality. He was deeply engrossed in reading and Bob picked up a newspaper which had been brought aboard the train at one of the Carolina towns.
But he found reading a difficult task. His mind was centered on the disappearance of Hamsa. It seemed absolutely incredible that a man could have vanished from a fast train while it was speeding through the night between stations. Yet apparently that was just what had taken place.
Bob knew there was an answer to the problem, and it was probably something ridiculously simple, but it evaded his every mental effort and he finally turned to the comic page of the newspaper for a chuckle or two at the antics of the comic characters.
The other passenger in the car put down the magazine he had been reading and went forward to his berth in another car. Bob was alone in the observation lounge without even a trainman in the car.
From up ahead the dismal hoot of the locomotive whistle drifted back and seconds later the car lurched as the trucks crashed over the frogs of a siding and the dimmed lights of a village drifted by in the storm. Then the train was in the heart of the desolate night once more.
After the events of the afternoon, with Tully’s sudden collapse and the disappearance of Hamsa, it was not a scene to inspire confidence in the heart of any young federal agent and Bob felt a queer chill running up and down his spine. Once or twice before, when sudden danger impended, he had had the same feeling.
Some premonition caused Bob to turn quickly toward the forward end of the observation car and his eyes riveted on a hand, extended around the edge of the corridor, which was groping for the switches controlling the lights inside the car.
Bob was motionless, but for only a second. Then he leaped forward, his powerful legs driving him ahead as the groping hand finally found the switch and he saw the fingers tense as they started to move the lever downward which would plunge the car into darkness.
A blanket of darkness engulfed the interior of the observation car and Bob heard the faint click of the switch. His body was hurtling forward with a momentum impossible to stop and he crashed almost headlong into the steel partition at the end of the car.
Bob was dazed by the shock of the impact and he dropped to the floor, too bruised to move for a moment.
Then a finger of light sought him out. The tiny ray was almost blinding in its brilliance and the beam swept Bob’s face as he struggled to get up. He was on his knees and facing the mysterious beam when there was a sharp blow on his face. The impact was not hard, but there was no mistaking that he had been struck.
A sudden nausea swept Bob and he felt his power of control ebbing rapidly. He tried to cry out, but his tongue seemed to swell and stick in his mouth. His arms dropped at his sides and he felt his knees wobbling. In spite of everything he could do he collapsed on the floor of the observation car.
The last thing Bob remembered was the thin beam of light which still sought him out with relentless steadiness and then a mocking laugh, heavy and daring, that might easily have come from the lips of Joe Hamsa had he been on the Southern Limited.
Chapter XI
DOUBLE DANGER
★
Bob never knew just how long he was unconscious, but it must have been at least half an hour before his mind started to clear and he felt some one shaking his shoulders.
His head pounded painfully and it was difficult for him to lift his heavy-lidded eyes. Some one moistened his lips and his tongue felt better. He tried to talk, but some one cut him short.
“He’s coming around now. Lift him into a chair.”
The command was obeyed and Bob felt himself being carried into a chair. Faintly he heard the steady clack of train trucks and he knew that he was still on the Southern Limited.
When his eyes finally focused and his blurred vision cleared he saw the train conductor leaning over him. A Pullman porter was just behind and in the background another trainman could be seen.
“What happened?” It was the voice of the train conductor.
Bob shook his head. He was still too weak to answer that question, but his eyes shot toward the end of the car as though he half expected to see a hand move around the corner and grope for the light switch. In his ears the mocking laugh he had heard still echoed.
“Where are we?” asked the young federal agent, and when the conductor answered Bob knew that the Limited was far behind its usual fast schedule into the southland.
Bob looked sharply at the trainmen.
“Have you seen anything of the man in lower nine in the last hour?” The question was sharp and he saw the look of surprise that passed over their faces.
Denials were quick and emphatic. Quite definitely they had not seen Joe Hamsa on the Limited.
Bob shook his head. That was strange for he was sure that it was Hamsa’s voice he had heard in the car just before he lost consciousness.
“Tell us what happened,” urged the train conductor, who was more than a little disturbed at the misfortunes which were befalling the passengers on the Limited that night. One federal agent had been taken suddenly ill, another passenger had disappeared, the train had been flagged down at a lonely station for a telegram, and now the second federal agent had been found unconscious in the observation car. It was, admitted the trainman, too much for him to untangle.
Bob felt more like talking now, and he told his story briefly.
“I turned toward the forward end of the car just in time to see some one’s hand groping around the corner for the light switch. I jumped for the switch, but the lights were snapped out before I could reach it.”
Bob paused for a moment, then went on.
“I crashed into the steel partition at the end of the lounge section of the car and fell down. Before I could get to my feet whoever had turned off the lights snapped on a small but very brilliant flash light and focused it on my eyes. Before I could get to my feet there was a sharp impact on my face. It was just as though some one had struck me a sharp blow. After that a wave of nausea swept over me and that was the last thing I remember until a few minutes ago.”
The conductor’s worry was reflected on his frank face.
“The flagman, coming back from the head end, found the car in darkness and when he turned on the lights he almost fell over you. I was pretty worried, but the porter told me that you acted like your friend this afternoon and I knew he was coming around all right so it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.”
“Just before I lost consciousness,” went on Bob, “I heard some one laugh and I would have sworn it was the voice of Hamsa, the man who has disappeared from lower nine.”
“Couldn’t have been,” declared the conductor. “I’ve been all over the train and know he isn’t aboard.”
“Then who could have turned off the lights in this car?” demanded Bob and the conductor shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.
“I’ll be glad when we’re at the end of the division,” he said. “This thing is getting my nerves. Next thing I’ll be seeing ghosts. You fellows must have eaten some tainted food.”
“No, that’s out. Neither my companion nor I had a meal together before we got on this train this afternoon and he was taken ill before the evening meal was served in the diner.”
“That’s right,” agreed the conductor. “Well, you puzzle it out. I guess that’s your profession.”
Bob got to his feet. His legs were still a little shaky and the porter hurried away for more coffee. When it was brought Bob drank two more cups of the hot liquid, then he walked up and down the car several times.
“If you can rustle up a sandwich out of the diner, I’ll feel better when I get some more food in my stomach,” said Bob, and the porter went out to fill his request.
The conductor turned to the flagman.
“Don’t leave this car again, except when you have to get off to protect the back end at flag stops,” he ordered. “I don’t want any more mysterious attacks on this train while I’m in charge of it.”
Then he looked at Bob, who was still white around the lips.
“Better get to bed and enjoy a few hours sleep, young man. You’re starting to look like a fish that’s been out of water too long.”
“I’m coming along all right,” declared Bob. “As soon as I have a sandwich I’ll feel better. I’m convinced that Hamsa is on this train some place and I’m going to find him.”
The conductor stared at Bob as though he thought the young federal agent was mentally unbalanced. Then, shaking his head and muttering to himself, he started forward to continue his greatly interrupted work on his reports.
The porter came back with a tray on which were two large, thick, meat sandwiches and a glass of milk and Bob sat down in the observation car to enjoy the late lunch.
The flagman, at the back end of the car, was inclined to be more talkative than the conductor.
“Everyone on the train’s shaky tonight,” he confided. “We got a message we picked up on the run a few minutes ago and a fast freight that’s been coming along right after us wasn’t able to find any trace of Hamsa along the stretch of road where we know he disappeared.”
“How fast were we running along that section?” asked Bob.
“Never under fifty, and most of the time between fifty-five and sixty-five.”
“Then a man wouldn’t have much chance of jumping from the train without such serious injury that he would be unable to get away?” pressed Bob.
“I should say he wouldn’t. At the very least he would get a broken leg and he wouldn’t be able to get far from the right-of-way in that condition. And remember that it’s been storming hard ever since yesterday afternoon.”
Bob knew that the trainman was right. It would have been almost sure suicide to have leaped from the speeding Limited and he was more convinced than ever that Hamsa was somewhere aboard the train.
“We’ve been over every car from head to rear and back again,” said Bob. “Have you any idea where he could hide?”
The flagman removed his cap and scratched his head.
“He didn’t go through the baggage car?” he asked.
“No,” replied Bob.
“How about under the steps in the vestibules? Did you lift all of the traps?”
Bob’s startled expression was sufficient answer to the flagman, who got hastily to his feet.
“No, we didn’t look under the traps,” admitted Bob.
“Then we’d better get busy. We can do it alone, working ahead through each car.”
The flagman started for the back end of the train, evidently intent on checking the trap doors on the observation platform when a sharp call from Bob stopped him.
“Hamsa isn’t going to be an easy man to take if he’s hiding under one of the traps. Wait until I can go forward and get a gun out of my bag.”
“I’ll wait,” agreed the flagman, who obviously had not thought that they might encounter armed resistance.
Bob, running lightly, sped through the two forward Pullmans and into car forty-three. His own Gladstone was still under the berth in which Tully was sleeping so heavily.
The young federal agent bent down and dragged it out. He knew just where he had put the gun and his hands sought it after he had opened the bag. But the weapon was not where Bob had placed it and a new feeling of anxiety gripped him.
With desperate hands he rummaged through the bag. The gun and box of cartridges he had placed there were gone!
Bob picked up the big bag and carried it to a berth further down the aisle where he snapped on the seat lights. Once more his hands ran through the clothing which filled the bag.
The revolver was gone, but the rifle he was taking south with him was intact, although the ammunition for it was missing. Some one had looted the bag and in doing so had left Bob defenseless against any armed attack.
The discovery that his own bag had been searched so disturbed Bob that for a moment he forgot the important confidential papers on the smuggling case which he had placed there.
When he recalled them, he started another search of the bag, turning clothes topsy-turvy in his search for the envelope and the precious information which it contained.
Bob searched both sides of the Gladstone with a heart that grew heavier with apprehension as each second passed. There was no question now—his own confidential papers had been stolen.
His hands went to the inner coat pocket where he had tucked the telegram warning them against Hamsa. When he drew them out his hands were empty. Even that message had disappeared and Bob knew then, without question, that Hamsa was somewhere on the train.
With the telegram from Washington in his possession and the knowledge that the federal agents were closing in on him, Hamsa would be doubly dangerous and Bob was unarmed.
Chapter XII
A NEW MYSTERY
★
Bob sat in the berth for a time, thinking what to do next. He was certain that Hamsa was on the train and he knew that the other was capably armed, for he had Bob’s own revolver and there was no question but that he would use the weapon if his hand was forced too far.
Bob got up and walked back to lower five where Tully was in a deep sleep. His traveling companion’s bag was in the rack above his berth and Bob reached in and pulled it out into the aisle, letting the heavy curtains fall back into place.
He went through the bag methodically, for Tully’s gun should have been there. Bob searched every article in the bag twice, but the hunt was fruitless. There was no weapon there. Hamsa had done a thorough job of disarming the federal agents.
Bob replaced Tully’s bag and then returned to the observation car where the flagman was waiting for him. He spread his empty hands in an expressive gesture.
“Some one’s been through my bag and my gun’s gone,” said Bob. “Whoever it was also went through the other agent’s bag for he’s been disarmed.”
The flagman’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m not so keen about going on with this search unless we’re armed,” he declared.
“Any guns of any kind on the train?”
“The baggage man up ahead has one, but I don’t suppose he would loan it to anyone.”
“There’s no harm in trying,” decided Bob, and he started forward through the train once more.
The conductor was in the last coach forward and Bob quickly explained what had happened. The trainman went ahead and tapped on the door of the baggage car.
It was opened cautiously and the baggage man stuck his head out.
“What do you want?” he demanded gruffly.
“Let us in,” cried the conductor and they stepped into the baggage car as a curtain of rain swept down off the roof of the train.
Bob displayed his badge and then told what he needed.
“I can’t let you have my service gun,” replied the baggage man, “but I’ve got a .22 target pistol I always carry along in my bag. You can have that if it will do you any good.”
“It’s pretty light. But it will be better than nothing,” decided Bob as the baggage man obtained the weapon and handed it to him.
“The only clip of cartridges I have for it are in the gun,” he explained, “so be careful on the ammunition if you get in a tight place.”
Bob and the conductor returned to the forward coach.
“Which end of the train are you going to start from?” asked the conductor.
“We’ll go back to the observation car and work forward,” said Bob. “The flagman is back there waiting for me.”
“I’ll go with you. I want him to stay on the back end and protect us if we have to make a sudden stop. The track is getting soft and there’s a fast freight that’s pounding along after us too close for comfort. I don’t want them piling into the back end of the Limited on a night like this.”
It was late as they started back once more and most of the passengers in the day coaches, curled into grotesque attitudes on the seats, were asleep. In the Pullmans the solid rows of green curtains swung to and fro as the train sped southward.
Bob thought of the possibility that Joe Hamsa might be hiding in one of the unoccupied berths, but he knew that the train crew had made a thorough search of each berth.
Standing a lonely vigil in the observation car had done little to help the jumpy nerves of the flagman and he was obviously relieved when he found that the conductor had decided to help Bob in the search of the vestibule steps.
“Better turn down the lights in this car,” advised the conductor. “All of the passengers on the Pullmans are in bed.”
“Nothing doing,” insisted the flagman. “This is one night when I want plenty of light in this car and I’d just as soon have plenty of company of the right kind. I thought I heard some one moving around several times.”
“You’ve been reading too many mystery stories,” jeered the conductor.
Bob led the way to the rear platform of the train and they stepped out into the raw bluster of the night.
The young federal agent took the target pistol out of his coat pocket and slipped the catch off the safety while the conductor focused the beam from his flash light on one of the traps in the floor of the vestibule.
The flagman, his foot poised to kick the catch, saw Bob nod and the next second the trap door swung upward as unseen springs provided the momentum. They stared down at the empty steps and the rays of the flash light, penetrating even beyond, showed the ends of the ties as they projected beyond the rain-swept ballast.
Down went the trap door and the flagman turned to the other side of the platform. Bob felt his heart beating harder. Actually he hardly knew what he would do if the trap, flying upward, were to reveal the hunched figure of Joe Hamsa.
The flagman kicked the release lever and the door sprung upward. Once more they stared at vacant steps and an endless row of marching ties.
They returned to the observation car.
“Hope you have a nice party,” grinned the flagman as Bob and the conductor started forward to continue the search of the vestibule steps.
“Seems like kind of a foolish thing to do,” grumbled the conductor.
“That may be, but I’m convinced that Hamsa is still aboard this train and the vestibule steps are the last place I can think of,” retorted Bob.
Four more traps were opened without success and they walked through another Pullman. Finally they came to car 43, where Tully was sleeping soundly. Their search at one end of the car was without result and they walked down to lower five.
One curtain in the berth seemed to be caught and pulled back inward. It was this which attracted Bob’s attention and made him pause. He leaned over to adjust the curtain and just then the train lurched sharply and he was thrown into the berth.
Bob attempted to brace himself and keep from falling on the sleeping Tully, but his efforts were without avail and he dropped rather heavily into the berth.
Bob expected Tully to cry out, but there was no answer from the other young federal agent and Bob, struggling to his feet, parted the curtains and with the conductor peering over his shoulder, looked in.
The bedding had been thrown carelessly to the back of the berth and Tully was missing!
Chapter XIII
GOING ON
★
Bob turned and stared at the conductor with unbelieving eyes.
“He’s gone!” said Bob mechanically.
But it couldn’t be possible for only a few minutes before he had looked in at Tully when he had examined the contents of his bag in the search for a weapon. Tully had been sleeping deeply but peacefully then.
“Maybe he walked up ahead to get a drink,” suggested the conductor. But there was little actual hope in his voice that this had happened.
“Get ahead and see if he’s there,” ordered Bob and the conductor hurried away.
Bob threw back the curtains in the berth and looked for some evidence of a struggle for he was convinced in his own mind that Tully had never left the berth of his own free will. For one thing Tully had been too ill to get up and do any walking on the train.
The conductor returned promptly. There was no sign of Tully in the head end of the Pullman.
Bob rummaged through the sheets and blankets on the bed and his hands suddenly came on something firm. He drew the object out of the bedding and gazed at it under the rays of the berth light which he had turned on. It was a leather covered blackjack.
“This spells trouble in capital letters,” said Bob as he drew out a clean handkerchief and turned the blackjack over. “Some one slugged Tully and then carried him out of his berth. This train is haunted.”
“I’m beginning to believe so myself,” agreed the conductor. “Who could have carried him away?”
“There’s only one answer to that—Hamsa,” asserted Bob. “What I want to know is what happened to Tully?”
The conductor shook his head in glum perplexity. Events were happening too swiftly for him to comprehend. First valuable papers had been stolen, then a gun, and a federal agent had disappeared from his berth. The trainman would welcome the end of the division and his run.
The brakeman, coming back from the head end on his rounds, stopped in the Pullman.
“One of you fellows leave the vestibule door up ahead open?” he asked.
“No,” replied Bob sharply.
“Well, some one did. I closed it when I came along.”
A look of apprehension flitted across Bob’s face.
“Which vestibule was open?” he demanded.
“Left hand one on the car just ahead,” replied the brakeman.
Without further questioning, Bob dashed ahead, a mounting fear tugging at his heart.
The conductor and brakeman followed him through the car and out into the vestibule where the steady clacking of the trucks beneath the Pullmans filled the air.
Bob stepped across the gap into the car ahead. There was a splotch of water on the steel floor of the vestibule where the wind had lashed the rain in while the door was open.
“This the door that was open?” asked Bob.
“Right. I closed it less than a minute ago,” replied the brakeman.
Bob dropped down to his knees and examined the floor of the vestibule. At first there appeared to be nothing unusual there, but his sharp eyes finally caught sight of a small, dark spot. It was soft and fresh and he touched it with his fingers.
Bob drew his hand back where the light was better and examined the dark marks on the tips of his fingers. From behind came an involuntary gasp from the brakeman.
The dark spots on Bob’s fingers were blood and the young federal agent looked up at the trainmen with eyes that were hard and piercing.
“Stop this train!” he ordered. “Tully Ross has been thrown from the train. We’ve got to go back.”
The conductor was silent for a moment, staring at the dark stains on Bob’s fingers. Then he shook his head.
“We can’t stop and go back. There’s a fast freight following right behind us and they might ram us. We’ll have to run to the nearest station with a night operator. Then we can get word back to division headquarters.”
“But we’ve got to stop. He may be seriously injured.”
The conductor looked at his watch. Just then the air brakes went on and streams of sparks flew from the wet trucks underneath.
“We’re slowing down now for Robertson where we take on water. There’s a night operator there. We can send a message back and get new orders.”
The brakeman threw open the vestibule door on the right side and almost before the train came to a stop Bob and the conductor were running forward.
When they reached the small station Bob dictated the message and the conductor told the operator to rush it through.
“That freight’s only ten miles up the line. It’s at Quasqueton now. Maybe we can catch it,” said the operator.
Bob nodded and the operator pounded his key hard with a desperate call for the night man at Quasqueton. It seemed ages before there was an answer. Actually the Quesqueton operator answered in less than a minute.
“Hold the freight,” snapped back the operator beside Bob, and just then the dispatcher at division headquarters chimed in and wanted to know what it was all about.
The story was snapped over the wires as the bent fingers of the operator at Robertson tapped out the facts. The answer from the dispatcher came sharply, first a message to the freight.
“To enginemen and trainmen of extra X703 South. Use all precautions in moving from Quasqueton to Robertson to find federal agent believed thrown from Southern Limited. Report immediately upon arrival at Robertson.”
That message was followed by one to the Limited to proceed. The night operator copied this quickly and handed the thin tissues to the conductor, who was buttoning up his coat before going back into the desolation of that wild night.
“Going on with us, or will you stay here and wait for the freight to come through and report?”
Bob hesitated. If he remained at the lonely station he would have first hand information if Tully was found by the freight crew. On the other hand, he was convinced that Joe Hamsa was still aboard the Southern Limited and that he had on his person the confidential documents on the smuggling ring which had been stolen from Tully and Bob.
The decision was made quickly.
“I’m going on the Limited. What’s our next stop?”
The conductor named a junction thirty miles down the line.
“Will the freight be in here by the time we reach the junction?” Bob asked the night operator.
“It will at the rate the Limited is running tonight,” replied the operator. “Quasqueton is reporting the freight out right now.”
“Let’s go,” called the conductor.
The trainman hurried outside and Bob banged the door after him. The federal agent went back to the Pullmans while the conductor ran forward with the orders for the engineer. A minute later the Limited hooted shrilly and once more started southward.
Chapter XIV
THE LIGHTS GO OUT
★
Back in the Pullman from which Tully had vanished Bob took off the coat which had protected him from the storm. He sat down opposite the berth and carefully examined the target revolver. An eerie feeling ran along his spine. He felt as though some one was watching him and he turned and scanned the windows of the Pullman. But that was impossible for the Limited was already running better than thirty miles an hour and no one could possibly have clung to the side of the train.
The conductor came back through.
“I’m going to finish that search,” declared Bob, and the trainman, without further comment, joined him.
Working together and moving cautiously, they raised up the trap door on every vestibule clear up to the baggage car. There was no one hidden on the steps.
“If there was ever anyone there, he got off at Robertson,” said the conductor.
But Bob shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said firmly. “What would a man stop there for? It’s miles from any other town, and there are no good highways nearby to make a get-away in a car.”
“Maybe you’re right, but there’s no one on this train.”
Bob wasn’t so sure. A crafty man such as Hamsa had shown himself to be could have moved to the shelter of one of the rear vestibules while the Limited was standing at Robertson for Bob had checked these vestibules before the train stopped there.
“I’m going to work from the front to the back,” declared Bob, and the conductor looked at him suspiciously as though thinking that the strain of the night might have unbalanced Bob. But he went along without complaint when the federal agent started the hunt again.
Car by car they inspected the train. The small dark spot they had found in one vestibule had dried and Bob didn’t dare think what might have happened to Tully. While there was no love lost between them, Bob had no desire to see any harm come to the other.
As they entered the observation car, the Limited started slowing down.
The conductor, pressing his face against one of the rain-washed panes of glass, peered ahead.
“Junction showing now,” he said as Bob stepped in after inspecting the trap doors on the observation platform.
A red lantern was being swung at the junction platform and the minute the Limited drew to a halt beside the cinder platform Bob and the trainman started running forward.
A night operator, swathed in a heavy storm coat, greeted them.
“Message from Robertson for Bob Houston,” he told the conductor. “Fine thing to make a man deliver telegrams at this time of night.”
The conductor didn’t bother to answer the operator’s complaint but handed the message to Bob, who tore open the envelope and read the brief message inside.
“Man you reported missing found by freight crew. Has cut on head and is bruised. Otherwise appears okay. Proceeding on to junction aboard freight.”
Bob breathed a sigh of relief for he was honestly glad to know that no serious harm had befallen Tully.
“Are you going on with us or will you stay here?” asked the conductor.
Bob hesitated for only a moment.
“I’m going on,” he decided, for he knew that Tully would be placed in good hands by the railroad people and could proceed on alone to his assignment as soon as he felt well enough. In the meantime, Bob was still convinced that Joe Hamsa was somewhere aboard the Limited for he knew that Hamsa’s destination, like his own, was somewhere along the east coast of Florida and he felt sure that Hamsa would lose no time in attempting to reach it. In view of that, Bob felt the gangster would continue on the Limited.
Two short, impatient blasts sounded up ahead and the Limited jerked into motion as Bob and the conductor swung back onto the train.
Bob had the borrowed revolver in one hand and as he swung up after the conductor one hand slipped on the wet handrail and he nearly fell. To save himself he grasped the railing with the other hand and dropped the gun just as the Limited rolled over a small culvert. It was impossible to stop and retrieve the gun and Bob was unarmed for a second time that night.
“I guess the fellow you’re hunting has disappeared for good,” said the conductor as he lowered the trap in the vestibule.
Bob, shaking the rain off his coat, nodded absent-mindedly and the trainman went forward while Bob returned to the Pullman. A queer feeling went through his body as he walked down the silent car. It was from this car that their confidential documents had disappeared and it was from the very berth that Bob had intended occupying that Tully had vanished.
The porter was evidently keeping as far away from the car as possible for he failed to answer Bob’s summons. However, a berth farther down the car had been made up and Bob decided to slip off his shoes and lie down there to rest.
With a little relaxation he might be able to think better; perhaps even to unravel all of the strange events which had taken place on the train since it had left Washington.
The Limited sped southward steadily and the clicking of the trucks soon lulled Bob to sleep in spite of his efforts to keep awake.
The young federal agent had no idea how long he had been asleep when he awoke suddenly with the breathless blackness of the car all around him. He rallied his thoughts.
The lights in the car had been on the last he could remember, for he had not drawn the curtains of his berth.
Bob sat upright in the berth and waited. The trucks were still echoing the pace of the train and Bob thought that the porter might have snapped the wrong switch.
Then he heard a movement down the aisle and knew instantly that some one was in the car.
Could it be Hamsa? That was the first question that flashed through Bob’s mind.
The federal agent gathered his feet beneath him. There wasn’t even time for him to grope under the berth in quest of his shoes for he could hear the stealthy approach of the intruder.
Bob strained his eyes in an effort to detect the movement of the marauder but the darkness of the car was too dense. He could only wait, but he felt that he had an advantage now, for he would be able to take the other by surprise.