All the time there were two unobtrusive strangers who kept him always in sight. He paid no apparent attention to them but waited, watch in hand, as the train approached Knoxville Someone asked the time.
“Six-thirty,” he whispered.
“We’re pretty late.”
“Yes, on account of that delay on the road.”
“When do we get in Knoxville?”
“About eight thirty, I imagine. Breakfast will be served as soon as we arrive.”
At last he went to some of the berths and pulled the lower sheet gently and then insistently.
“One hour to Knoxville,” he said; and again and again. “One hour to Knoxville.”
The car aisles began to fill with half-dressed travelers. He brought new bundles of towels and began to make up vacant berths. He worked rapidly and deftly. There was much confusion, and always the two unobtrusive men were near. Some of the returning passengers found their seats in order. Others did not and made sharp remarks, but Matthew pacified them, guided them to resting-places, and began to collect the luggage and to brush the clothes.
The sweat poured off him, but he worked swiftly. When they stopped in the depot, he was at the step in coat and cap, wooden, deferential: “Thank you, sir. All right here, Cap.”
They moved out for the swift three-hour run to Atlanta. He finished the other berths, brushed more passengers, stowed dirty linen, swept, dusted, and guided passengers to the dining-car attached at Knoxville.
The train glided into the Atlanta station.
And then it came.
“Towns, step this way—gentleman wants to see you.”
He walked back through the train into the lounge of the private car again. On the table lay something under a sheet. About the door, several of the passengers were crowded.
As Matthew entered the car he saw in the vestibule, and for the first time since one awful night, a well-remembered figure—a woman, high-colored, big and boldly handsome, with her lowered eyelids and jeweled hands. Beside her was a weak-looking man, faultlessly tailored, with an old and dissipated face. They were in the waiting throng. The woman looked up. Her eyes widened suddenly, and then quietly she fainted away.
Matthew faltered but an instant and then walked steadily on. He entered the room. The conductor was there, the two quiet men, and a grave-faced stranger. And then came the Princess, the Japanese, and several other guests. They all sat, but Matthew stood silent, his uniform spotless, his head up.
One of the strangers spoke.
“Your name is—”
“Matthew Towns.”
“You are a porter?”
“Yes.”
“The porters had planned a strike in Cincinnati?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you strike?”
“I was going to, but I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because the others decided not to—and because I heard that this train was going to be wrecked.”
“By the porters?”
“Certainly not!”
“By whom?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Who told you?”
“I will not say.”
“Did the other porters hear this?”
“No, I was the only one.”
“How do you know?”
“I am sure.”
“When did you hear this?”
“Just before the train started.”
“From Chicago?”
“No, from Cincinnati.”
“But you were in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“And planned the strike there?”
“Yes. I helped to.”
“What did you do when you heard this rumor?”
“I offered to go as porter.”
“You offered to go on a train that you knew was going to be wrecked?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well—a porter—my friend—was lynched on this train a week ago. I urged the strike as a protest. When it failed—nothing mattered.”
“Did you intend to stop the wreck?”
“At first, no.”
“And you—you changed your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I cannot tell.”
“How did you think you could prevent it?”
“Well—I did prevent it.”
“Who told you about this plot?”
“I will not tell.”
“Did this man tell you?”
They drew the sheet from Perigua’s dead face. Beneath the sheet his body looked queer, humped and broken. But his face was peaceful and smiling. Matthew’s face was stone.
“No.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see him before?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the office of the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan in the Sherman Hotel, Chicago.”
There was a stir among the crowd. A big man with a flat, broad face and little eyes pressed forward and viewed the corpse.
“It may be Sam,” he said. “Were any papers or marks found on him?”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing. Not even laundry marks.”
“I’m almost sure that’s Sam Johnson, who acted as messenger in our Chicago office. If it is,” he spoke deliberately, “I’ll vouch for him. Excellent character—wouldn’t hurt a flea.” He glanced at Matthew.
The inquisitor turned back to Matthew.
“Who told you of this wreck?”
“I will not tell.”
“Why not?”
“I take all the blame.”
“Do you realize your position? You stand between high reward and criminal punishment.”
“I know it.”
“Who told you of the wreck?”
And then like sudden thunder came the low, clear voice of the Princess:
“I told him!”
XVI
Circuit Judge Windom, presiding over the criminal court of Cook County, Illinois, sat in his chambers with a frown on his face. Beside him sat his son, the gifted young medical student, home from the holidays.
“Certainly I remember Towns,” said the younger man. “He was a fine fellow—first-rate brains, fine athlete, and a gentleman. If it had not been for his color, he’d have been sure to make a big reputation, but they drove him out of school. Somebody had kicked about Negroes in the women’s clinics. Towns wouldn’t beg—he slapped the Dean’s face, I heard, and left.”
“H’m—violent, even then.”
“But, my God, father, Towns was a man—not just a colored man. Why, you remember how he beat me for the Mitchel Prize?”
“Yes, yes—but all that does not clear up this mystery. I can get neither head nor tail of it. Here is an atrocious railroad wreck planned on a leading railway. Half an hour more, and there would have been perhaps five hundred corpses strewn in the river. Awful! Dastardly!
