Something unusual seemed to have happened, and Ruthven strolled forward alongside of the train. At the window through which he had seen the man in the gray hat he paused for a closer scrutiny. No passenger showed through the glass; the sinister face under the gray hat had disappeared.
"Moved to some other seat, I suppose," reflected Ruthven. "Well, it doesn't make much difference anyway—now." He proceeded on to the express car.
Here there was a good deal of excitement. A brakeman had entered the car by an end door, finding it unlocked. He pushed open the side door and thrust out his head excitedly. "Something wrong in here," he announced to the conductor and another brakeman who stood beside the man with the truck. "Billings, the messenger, is all doubled up in a heap. Guess he's sick or something."
The conductor climbed to the truck, and then into the car. He was followed by the other two men. Ruthven, curious, and impelled by a feeling that he might somehow have a personal interest in developments, got upon the truck and peered into the coach.
A brakeman had Billings' head on his knee, and the conductor was bringing a cup of water from the tank. The messenger was reviving, even before the cold water was flung in his face.
"What is the matter?" inquired Ruthven, stepping off the truck and through the wide doorway.
"Maybe Billings hurt himself," said the conductor, "or maybe some one else hurt him. We'll know in a minute. I don't like the look of things. The brakeman says he found the end door unlocked. Billings isn't usually careless."
The messenger, at that moment, lifted his head from the brakeman's knee and sat up. One hand went to the back of his head. "Some—somebody hit me," he remarked, looking around dazedly.
"When, Billings?" asked the conductor. "Who was it?"
"Not more than two or three miles out of Bluffton," said the messenger, gathering his wits to deal with the puzzling question. "Who it was is more than I know. I was sitting in that chair"—he pointed to an armchair near the middle of the car—"and my back was to the rear door. The fellow, whoever he was, crept in on me and gave me a crack from behind. That's all I remember till just now." Color flushed his pallid face as he struggled to his feet. "Is anything gone?" he asked wildly.
"The scoundrel didn't have time to steal anything, Billings," said the conductor, "if you were only two miles out of Okaday when he bowled you over."
"He must have been a robber!" insisted Billings.
"Then he miscalculated the distance to Okaday and didn't have time to get hold of anything valuable. Can you take on the stuff here? Edson will help you," and he nodded to one of the brakemen.
Ruthven started to leave the car, when his eye lighted upon the Barton package, and he picked it up. A sharp breath fluttered through his lips. The package weighed more than six pounds—he knew it! Turning the package end-up, he looked for the pencil mark. It was there! So Durfee and Harrington had made a mistake, after all. The Barton parcel was overweight, just as when it had left Burt City!
CHAPTER VII.
A FLASH IN THE PAN.
AFTER Seventeen had left Okaday, Leason, the conductor, made his tour of the coaches, collecting tickets and cash fares. He was so startled
