s, the
conductor of the Flier, sent this telegram to the chief of police:

"'Body of Simon Harrington found stabbed in his berth, lower ten,
Ontario, at six-thirty this morning.
JOHN FLANDERS, Conductor.'

"It is hoped that the survivors of the wrecked car Ontario will be
found, to tell what they know of the discovery of the crime.

"Mr. John Gilmore, head of the steel company for which Mr. Harrington
was purchasing agent, has signified his intention of sifting the matter
to the bottom."

"So you see," Hotchkiss concluded, "there's trouble brewing. You and I
are the only survivors of that unfortunate car."

I did not contradict him, but I knew of two others, at least: Alison
West, and the woman we had left beside the road that morning, babbling
incoherently, her black hair tumbling over her white face.

"Unless we can find the man who occupied lower seven," I suggested.

"I have already tried and failed. To find him would not clear you, of
course, unless we could establish some connection between him and the
murdered man. It is the only thing I see, however. I have learned this
much," Hotchkiss concluded: "Lower seven was reserved from Cresson."

Cresson! Where Alison West and Mrs. Curtis had taken the train!

McKnight came forward and suddenly held out his hand. "Mr. Hotchkiss,"
he said, "I--I'm sorry if I have been offensive. I thought when you came
in, that, like the Irishman and the government, you were 'forninst' us.
If you will put those cheerful relics out of sight somewhere, I should
be glad to have you dine with me at the Incubator." (His name for his
bachelor apartment.) "Compared with Johnson, you are the great original
protoplasm."

The strength of this was lost on Hotchkiss, but the invitation was
clear. They went out together, and from my window I watched them get
into McKnight's car. It was raining, and at the corner the Cannonball
skidded. Across the street my detective, Johnson, looked after them with
his crooked smile. As he turned up his collar he saw me, and lifted his
hat.

I left the window and sat down in the growing dusk. So the occupant of
lower seven had got on the car at Cresson, probably with Alison West and
her companion. There was some one she cared about enough to shield. I
went irritably to the door and summoned Mrs. Klopton.

"You may throw out those roses," I said without looking at her. "They
are quite dead."

"They have been