seemed satisfied.

"Why haven't you jailed me?" Eaton asked.

"We're waiting to see how things go with Mr. Santoine."

"Has he been conscious?"

Connery did not answer; and through the conductor's silence Eaton
sensed suddenly what the true condition of affairs must be. To give
him up to the police would make public the attack upon Santoine; and
until Santoine either died or recovered far enough to be consulted by
them, neither Avery nor Connery--nor Connery's superiors,
apparently--dared to take the responsibility of doing this. So Eaton
would be carried along to whatever point they might reach when Santoine
died or became fully conscious. Where would that be? Clear to Chicago?

It made no material difference to him, Eaton realized, whether the
police took him in Montana or Chicago, since in either case recognition
of him would be certain in the end; but in Chicago this recognition
must be immediate, complete, and utterly convincing.

The next day the weather had moderated, or--here in North Dakota--it
had been less severe; the snow was not deep except in the hollows, and
on the black, windswept farmlands sprouts of winter wheat were faintly
showing. The train was traveling steadily and faster than its regular
schedule; it evidently was running as a special, some other train
taking the ordinary traffic; it halted now only at the largest cities.
In the morning it crossed into Minnesota; and in the late afternoon,
slowing, it rolled into some large city which Eaton knew must be
Minneapolis or St. Paul. All day he had listened for sounds in the
Santoine car, but had heard nothing; the routine which had been
established to take care of him had gone on through the day, and he had
seen no one but Connery and the negro, and his questions to them had
been unanswered.

The car here was uncoupled from the train and picked up by a switch
engine; as dusk fell, Eaton, peering out of his window, could see that
they had been left lying in the railroad yards; and about midnight,
awakening in his berth, he realized that the car was still motionless.
He could account for this stoppage in their progress only by some
change in the condition of Santoine. Was Santoine sinking, so that
they no longer dared to travel? Was he, perhaps--dead?

No sounds came to him from the car to confirm Eaton in any conclusion;
there was nothing to be learned from any one outside the car. A
solitary man, burly and alert, paced quietly back