“I know,” said Ronicky. “Then
I come and spoiled the whole party. Sure makes
me sick to think about it.”
“And now she’s plumb gone,” muttered
Bill Gregg. “I thought maybe the reason
I didn’t have her correcting my lessons any more
was because she’d had to leave the schools and
go West. So, right after I got this drilling
through the leg, you remember, I wrote a letter?”
“Sure.”
“It was to her at the schools, but I didn’t
get no answer. I guess she didn’t go back
there after all. She’s plumb gone, Ronicky.”
The other was silent for a moment. “How
much would you give to find her?” he asked suddenly.
“Half my life,” said Bill Gregg solemnly.
“Then,” said Ronicky, “we’ll
make a try at it. I got an idea how we can start
on the trail. I’m going to go with you,
partner. I’ve messed up considerable, this
little game of yours; now I’m going to do what
I can to straighten it out. Sometimes two are
better than one. Anyway I’m going to stick
with you till you’ve found her or lost her for
good. You see?”
Bill Gregg sighed. “You’re pretty
straight, Ronicky,” he said, “but what
good does it do for two gents to look for a needle
in a haystack? How could we start to hit the
trail?”
“This way. We know the train that she took.
Maybe we could find the Pullman conductor that was
on it, and he might remember her. They got good
memories, some of those gents. We’ll start
to find him, which had ought to be pretty easy.”
“Ronicky, I’d never of thought of that
in a million years!”
“It ain’t thinking that we want now, it’s
acting. When can you start with me?”
“I’ll be fit tomorrow.”
“Then tomorrow we start.”
Macklin’s Library
Robert Macklin, Pullman conductor, had risen to that
eminent position so early in life that the glamour
of it had not yet passed away. He was large enough
to have passed for a champion wrestler or a burly
pugilist, and he was small enough to glory in the smallest
details of his work. Having at the age of thirty,
through a great deal of luck and a touch of accident,
secured his place, he possessed, at least, sufficient
dignity to fill it.
He was one of those rare men who carry their dignity
with them past the doors of their homes. Robert
Macklin’s home, during the short intervals when
he was off the trains, was in a tiny apartment.
It was really one not overly large room, with a little
alcove adjoining; but Robert Macklin had seized the
opportunity to hang a curtain across the alcove, and,
since it was large enough to contain a chair and a
bookshelf, he referred to it always as his “library.”
He was this morning seated in his library, with his
feet protruding through the curtains and resting on
the foot of his bed, when the doorbell rang.
He surveyed himself in his mirror before he answered
it. Having decided that, in his long dressing
gown, he was imposing enough, he advanced to the door
and slowly opened it.
