I checked my suit-case and started out
to look up some of my friends. As I went out one door, I glimpsed the
vanishing point of a man's coat exiting in the opposite direction. I
started to cut across the corner, but a backward glance revealed a
man's hat and one eye peering around the corner of the station. Was I
being detected? I stopped in my tracks, my literary instinct on the
alert. The hat slowly pivoted a head into view. It was Kirke Connor.
He shuffled toward me, glancing back and forth in a curious, furtive
way. His face was harrowed, his eyes blood-shot. He clutched my hand
breathlessly and clung to me as to the proverbial straw.
"'Have you seen Matters?' he asked.
"'Matters?'
"'You know Matters,--the sheriff at Mount Mark.'
"I looked at him in a way which I trust became the daughter of a
district superintendent of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
"He mopped his fevered brow.
"'He has been on my trail for two days.' Then he twinkled, more like
himself. 'It has been a hot trail, too, if I do say it who shouldn't.
If he has had a full breath for the last forty-eight hours, I am
ashamed of myself.'
"'But what in the world--'
"'Let's duck into the station a minute. I know the freight agent and
he will hide me in a trunk if need be.
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