He has been here ever
since we came."

"Agent of the Colthwaite Company?" repeated the general manager, opening
his eyes. "What's his name?"

"Fred Ransom," Tom replied half carelessly.

"Ransom? Fred Ransom? I never heard of any Colthwaite agent of that
name."

"He's one of the Colthwaite people's troublemakers," Tom went on,
opening his own eyes rather wide.

"If you were sure of this why didn't you report it to me earlier?"

"Why, I supposed your railroad detectives knew all about it. And that
you had heard of it long ago," Reade declared.

"I haven't heard a word of it," continued Mr. Ellsworth, coming down the
steps of his car and standing on the ground once more. "What proof have
you of Ransom's business here?"

"None whatever," Tom answered cheerfully, "but I had him spotted the
first time I heard him talking. He was too entirely positive that we'd
fail."

"That was no proof against him."

"No; but Ransom was also certain that the Colthwaite plan was the only
one that could bring the Man-killer to time."

"Have you any other reason to suspect this main?" queried Mr. Ellsworth.

"Only the fact that Ransom and Jim Duff have been close friends."

"Where does Ransom stop?"

"At the Mansion House. He has a suite of rooms there, and entertains
some kinds of people, including Duff, very lavishly."

"Keep your eyes on that crowd as much as possible, Reade," directed the
general manager thoughtfully, as he once more climbed to the platform of
his car.

"I will, sir; and it might not be a bad idea to have your detectives do
something of the sort, also."

The general manager did not answer, except by a vague nod as his train
pulled out from the outskirts of the railway camp.

Tom went back, called for his horse and rode to the westward for another
look at the Man-killer. He found Harry, also in saddle, beneath the
scanty shade of a struggling tree. Hazelton's quick eyes were taking
in every detail of the work being done by the several large gangs of
workmen.

"Tom, if we're away from here by Christmas, there's one present you
needn't make me," smiled Hazelton wanly, as he caught sight of the
camera hanging in its leather field case at his chum's side.

"What present is that?" Tom inquired.

"Don't make me a present of a photograph of this awful place. It's
photographed on my brain now, and burned in and baked there. If we ever
get through with the Man-killer, and get our money, I never want to s