n the train?"

"What does she look like?" asked the cautious Banneker.

"She looks like a million dollars!" declared the other with enthusiasm.
"She's a killer! She's tall and blonde and a great athlete: baby-blue
eyes and general rosebud effect."

"Nothing of that sort on the train, so far as I saw," said the agent.

"Did you see any couple that looked lovey-dovey?"

"No."

"Then, there's another tip that connects her up with Carter Holmesley.
Know about him?"

"I've seen his name."

"He's been on a hell of a high-class drunk, all up and down the coast,
for the last week or so. Spilled some funny talk at a dinner, that got
into print. But he put up such a heavy bluff of libel, afterward, that
the papers shied off. Just the same, I believe they had it right, and
that there was to have been a wedding-party on. Find the girl: that's
the stunt now."

"I don't think you're likely to find her around here."

"Maybe not. But there's something. Holmesley has beaten it for the Far
East. Sailed yesterday. But the story is still in this country, if the
lady can be rounded up.... Well, I'm going to the village to make
inquiries. Want to put me up again for the night if there's no train
back?"

"Sure thing! There isn't likely to be, either."

Banneker felt greatly relieved at the easy turn given to the inquiry by
the distorted tip. True, Gardner might, on his return, enter upon some
more embarrassing line of inquiry; in which case the agent decided to
take refuge in silence. But the reporter, when he came back late in the
evening disheartened and disgusted with the fallibility of long-distance
tips, declared himself sick of the whole business.

"Let's talk about something else," he said, having lighted his pipe.
"What else have you written besides the wreck stuff?"

"Nothing," said Banneker.

"Come off! That thing was never a first attempt."

"Well, nothing except random things for my own amusement."

"Pass 'em over."

Banneker shook his head. "No; I've never shown them to anybody."

"Oh, all right. If you're shy about it," responded the reporter
good-humoredly. "But you must have thought of writing as a profession."

"Vaguely, some day."

"You don't talk much like a country station-agent. And you don't act
like one. And, judging from this room"--he looked about at the
well-filled book-shelves--"you don't look like one. Quite a library.
Harvey Wheelwright! Lord! I might have known. Great stuff, isn't it?"