The train moved on.  Bronson shut the door and buttoned his coat.  Fotheringham, still busy on his way bills, was whistling softly to himself, and sitting with his back to his fellow passenger.

Some unusual noise in the front end of the car caught his ear, and raising his head, he exclaimed: 

“What’s that?”

The answer came, not from the front of the car but from behind.

A strong muscular hand was placed on his neck.  A brawny arm was thrown around his chest, and lifted from the chair, he was thrown violently to the floor of the car.

In a flash he realized his position.  With an almost superhuman effort, he threw Bronson from him, and reaching around felt for his revolver.  It was gone, and thrown to the other end of the car.

Little did the passengers on the train know of the stirring drama which was being enacted in the car before them.  Little did they think as they leaned back in their comfortable seats, of the terrific struggle which was then taking place.  On one hand it was a struggle for $100,000; on the other, for reputation, for honor, perhaps for life.

Fotheringham, strong as he vas (for he was large of frame, and muscular) was no match for his assailant.  He struggled manfully, but was hurled again to the floor, and as he looked up, saw the cold barrel of a 32- calibre pointed at his head.  Bronson’s face, distorted with passion and stern with the fight, glared down at him, as he hissed through his teeth: 

“Make a sound, and you are a dead man.”

The messenger, seeing all was lost, lay passive upon the floor.  The robber, whipping out a long, strong, silk handkerchief, tied his hands behind his back, and making a double-knotted gag of Fotheringham’s handkerchief, gagged him.  Searching the car he discovered a shawl-strap with which he tied the messenger’s feet, and thus had him powerless as a log.  Then, and not till then, did he speak aloud.

“Done, and well done, too.”

The flush faded from his face, his eye became sullen, and drawing the messenger’s chair to him he sat down.  As he gazed at his discomfited prisoner an expression of intense relief came over his features.  His forged letters had proved successful, his only formidable obstacle between himself and his anticipated booty lay stretched at his feet, helpless and harmless.  The nature of the car prevented any interruption from the ends, as the only entrance was through the side doors, and he had all night before him to escape.

Now for the plunder.  The key to the safe was in Fotheringham’s pocket.  It took but a second to secure it, and but another second to use it in unlocking the strong-box.  The messenger, unable to prevent this in any way, looked on in intense mental agony.  He saw that he would be suspected as an accomplice.  The mere fact that one man could disarm, bind and gag him, would be used as a suspicious circumstance against him.  Although he did not know the exact sum of money in the safe he was aware that it was of a very considerable amount, and he fairly writhed in his agony of mind.  In an instant Cummings (or, as he had been called by the messenger, Bronson) was on his feet, revolver in hand, and again the cruel, murderous expression dwelt on his face, as he exclaimed: