limped up to me and asked me what that smoke was over there.
“‘That’s what’s left of the Washington Flier,’ I said, ‘and I guess there’s souls going up in that smoke.’
“‘Do you mean the first section?’ he said, getting kind of greenish-yellow.
“‘That’s what I mean,’ I said; ‘split to kindling wood because Rafferty, on the second section, didn’t want to be late.’
“He put his hand out in front of him, and the satchel fell with a bang.
“‘My God!’ he said, and dropped right on the track in a heap.
“I got him into the station and he came around, but he kept on groaning something awful. He’d sprained his ankle, and when he got a little better I drove him over in Carter’s milk wagon to the Carter place, and I reckon he stayed there a spell.”
“That’s all, is it?” I asked.
“That’s all - or, no, there’s something else. About noon that day one of the Carter twins came down with a note from him asking me to send a long-distance message to some one in Washington.”
“To whom?” I asked eagerly.
“I reckon I’ve forgot the name, but the message was that this fellow - Sullivan was his name - was at M-, and if the man had escaped from the wreck would he come to see him.”
“He wouldn’t have sent that message to me,” I said to McKnight, rather crestfallen. “He’d have every object in keeping out of my way.”
“There might be reasons,” McKnight observed judicially. “He might not have found the papers then.”
“Was the name Blakeley?” I asked.
“It might have been - I can’t say. But the man wasn’t there, and there was a lot of noise. I couldn’t hear well. Then in half an hour down came the other twin to say the gentleman was taking on awful and didn’t want the message sent.”
“He’s gone, of course?”
“Yes. Limped down here in about three days and took the noon train for the city.”
It seemed a certainty now that our man, having hurt himself somewhat in his jump, had stayed quietly in the farmhouse until he was able to travel. But, to be positive, we decided to visit the Carter place.
I gave the station agent a five-dollar bill, which he rolled up with a couple of others and stuck in his pocket. I turned as we got to a bend in the road, and he was looking curiously after us.
It was not until we had climbed the hill and turned onto the road to the Carter place that I realized where we were going. Although we approached it from another direction, I knew the farmhouse at once. It was the one where Alison West and I had breakfasted nine days before. With the new restraint between us, I did not tell McKnight. I wondered afterward if he had suspected it. I saw him looking hard at the gate-post which had figured in one of our mysteries, but he asked no questions. Afterward he grew almost taciturn, for him, and let me do most of the talking.
We opened the front gate of the Carter place and went slowly up the walk. Two ragged youngsters, alike even to freckles and squints, were playing in the yard.
“Is your mother around?” I asked.
“In the front room. Walk in,” they answered in identical tones.
As we got to the porch we heard voices, and stopped. I knocked, but the people within, engaged in animated, rather one-sided conversation, did not answer.
“‘In the front room. Walk in,’” quoted McKnight, and did so.
In the stuffy farm parlor two people were sitting. One, a pleasant-faced woman with a checked apron, rose, somewhat embarrassed, to meet us. She did not know me, and I was thankful. But our attention was riveted on a little man who was sitting before a table, writing busily. It was Hotchkiss!
He got up when he saw us, and had the grace to look uncomfortable.
“Such an interesting case,” he said nervously, “I took the liberty - ”
“Look here,” said McKnight suddenly, “did you make any inquiries at the station?”
“A few,” he confessed. “I went to the theater last night - I felt the need of a little relaxation - and the sight of a picture there, a cinematograph affair, started a new line of thought. Probably the same clue brought you gentlemen. I learned a good bit from the station agent.”
“The son-of-a-gun,” said McKnight. “And you paid him, I suppose?”
“I gave him five dollars,” was the apologetic answer. Mrs. Carter, hearing sounds of strife in the yard, went out, and Hotchkiss folded up his papers.
“I think the identity of the man is established,” he said. “What number of hat do you wear, Mr. Blakeley?”
“Seven and a quarter,” I replied.
“Well, it’s only piling up evidence,” he said cheerfully. “On the night of the murder you wore light gray silk underclothing, with the second button of the shirt missing. Your hat had ‘L. B.’ in gilt letters inside, and there was a very minute hole in the toe of one black sock.”
“Hush,” McKnight protested. “If word gets to Mrs. Klopton that Mr. Blakeley was wrecked, or robbed, or whatever it was, with a button missing and a hole in one sock, she’ll retire to the Old Ladies’ Home. I’ve heard her threaten it.”
Mr. Hotchkiss was without a sense of humor. He regarded McKnight gravely and went on:
