Taking it for granted that Superintendent Leckhard had long since left his office in the Pacific Southwestern building, Lidgerwood gave orders to have his car placed on the station-spur, and went on with his work.  Being at the moment deeply immersed in the voluminous papers of a claim for stock killed, he was quite oblivious of the placement of the car, and of everything else, until the incoming of the fast main-line mail from the east warned him that another hour had passed.  When the mail was gone on its way westward, the midnight silence settled down again, with nothing but the minimized crashings of freight cars in the lower shifting-yard to disturb it.  The little Japanese had long since made up his bunk in one of the spare state-rooms, the train crew had departed with the engine, and the last mail-wagon had driven away up-town.  Lidgerwood had closed his desk and was taking a final pull at the short pipe which was his working companion, when the car door opened silently and he saw an apparition.

Standing in the doorway and groping with her hands held out before her as if she were blind, was a woman.  Her gown was the tawdry half-dress of the dance-halls, and the wrap over her bare shoulders was a gaudy imitation in colors of the Spanish mantilla.  Her head was without covering, and her hair, which was luxuriant, hung in disorder over her face.  One glance at the eyes, fixed and staring, assured Lidgerwood instantly that he had to do with one who was either drink-maddened or demented.

“Where is he?” the intruder asked, in a throaty whisper, staring, not at him, as Lidgerwood was quick to observe, but straight ahead at the portieres cutting off the state-room corridor from the open compartment.  And then:  “I told you I would come, Rankin; I’ve been watching years and years for your car to come in.  Look—­I want you to see what you have made of me, you and that other man.”

Lidgerwood sat perfectly still.  It was quite evident that the woman did not see him.  But his thoughts were busy.  Though it was by little more than chance, he knew that Hallock’s Christian name was Rankin, and instantly he recalled all that McCloskey had told him about the chief clerk’s marital troubles.  Was this poor painted wreck the woman who was, or who had been, Hallock’s wife?  The question had scarcely formulated itself before she began again.

“Why don’t you answer me?  Where are you?” she demanded, in the same husky whisper; “you needn’t hide—­I know you are here. What have you done to that man? You said you would kill him; you promised me that, Rankin:  have you done it?”

Lidgerwood reached up cautiously behind him, and slowly turned off the gas from the bracket desk-lamp.  Without wishing to pry deeper than he should into a thing which had all the ear-marks of a tragedy, he could not help feeling that he was on the verge of discoveries which might have an important bearing upon the mysterious problems centring in the chief clerk.  And he was afraid the woman would see him.