re near Cresson."

"And that was the purse--her purse--with the broken necklace in it?"

"Yes, it was. You understand, don't you, Rich, that, having given her my
word, I couldn't tell you?"

"I understand a lot of things," he said, without bitterness.

We sat for some time and smoked. Then Richey got up and stretched
himself. "I'm off to bed, old man," he said. "Need any help with that
game arm of yours?"

"No, thanks," I returned.

I heard him go into his room and lock the door. It was a bad hour for
me. The first shadow between us, and the shadow of a girl at that.

CHAPTER XVII. AT THE FARM-HOUSE AGAIN

McKnight is always a sympathizer with the early worm. It was late when
he appeared. Perhaps, like myself, he had not slept well. But he was
apparently cheerful enough, and he made a better breakfast than I did.
It was one o'clock before we got to Baltimore. After a half hour's wait
we took a local for M-, the station near which the cinematograph picture
had been taken.

We passed the scene of the wreck, McKnight with curiosity, I with a
sickening sense of horror. Back in the fields was the little farm-house
where Alison West and I had intended getting coffee, and winding away
from the track, maple trees shading it on each side, was the lane where
we had stopped to rest, and where I had--it seemed presumption beyond
belief now--where I had tried to comfort her by patting her hand.

We got out at M-, a small place with two or three houses and a general
store. The station was a one-roomed affair, with a railed-off place at
the end, where a scale, a telegraph instrument and a chair constituted
the entire furnishing.

The station agent was a young man with a shrewd face. He stopped
hammering a piece of wood over a hole in the floor to ask where we
wanted to go.

"We're not going," said McKnight, "we're coming. Have a cigar?"

The agent took it with an inquiring glance, first at it and then at us.

"We want to ask you a few questions," began McKnight, perching himself
on the railing and kicking the chair forward for me. "Or, rather, this
gentleman does."

"Wait a minute," said the agent, glancing through the window. "There's a
hen in that crate choking herself to death."

He was back in a minute, and took up his position near a sawdust-filled
box that did duty as a cuspidor.

"Now fire away," he said.

"In the first place," I began, "do you remember the day the Washington
Flier was wrecked below