nd. The rest of the cars seemed still
wrapped in slumber. With mixed sensations I saw my own car, Ontario, fly
past, and then I rose to my feet and gripped McKnight's shoulder.

On the lowest step at the last car, one foot hanging free, was a man.
His black derby hat was pulled well down to keep it from blowing away,
and his coat was flying open in the wind. He was swung well out from
the car, his free hand gripping a small valise, every muscle tense for a
jump.

"Good God, that's my man!" I said hoarsely, as the audience broke into
applause. McKnight half rose: in his seat ahead Johnson stifled a yawn
and turned to eye me.

I dropped into my chair limply, and tried to control my excitement. "The
man on the last platform of the train," I said. "He was just about to
leap; I'll swear that was my bag."

"Could you see his face?" McKnight asked in an undertone. "Would you
know him again?"

"No. His hat was pulled down and his head was bent I'm going back to
find out where that picture was taken. They say two miles, but it may
have been forty."

The audience, busy with its wraps, had not noticed. Mrs. Dallas and
Alison West had gone. In front of us Johnson had dropped his hat and was
stooping for it.

"This way," I motioned to McKnight, and we wheeled into the narrow
passage beside us, back of the boxes. At the end there was a door
leading into the wings, and as we went boldly through I turned the key.

The final set was being struck, and no one paid any attention to us.
Luckily they were similarly indifferent to a banging at the door I had
locked, a banging which, I judged, signified Johnson.

"I guess we've broken up his interference," McKnight chuckled.

Stage hands were hurrying in every direction; pieces of the side wall
of the last drawing-room menaced us; a switchboard behind us was singing
like a tea-kettle. Everywhere we stepped we were in somebody's way. At
last we were across, confronting a man in his shirt sleeves, who by dots
and dashes of profanity seemed to be directing the chaos.

"Well?" he said, wheeling on us. "What can I do for you?"

"I would like to ask," I replied, "if you have any idea just where the
last cinematograph picture was taken."

"Broken board--picnickers--lake?"

"No. The Washington Flier."

He glanced at my bandaged arm.

"The announcement says two miles," McKnight put in, "but we should like
to know whether it is railroad miles, automobile miles, or policeman
miles."