in answer to one of Peter's: "Three men killed--others escaped.
MacFarlane's operation successful. Explosion premature."

Their anxiety only increased: Why hadn't Jack telegraphed? Why leave it
to Bolton? Why was there no word of him,--and yet how could Bolton have
known that Peter was with Ruth, except from young Breen. In this mortal
terror Peter had wired from Albany: "Is Breen hurt?" but no answer had
been received at Poughkeepsie. There had not been time for it, perhaps,
but still there was no answer, nor had his name been mentioned in any of
the other telegrams. That in itself was ominous.

This same question Ruth had asked herself a dozen times. Jack was to
have had charge of the battery--he had told her so. Was he one of the
killed?--why didn't somebody tell her?--why hadn't Mr. Bolton said
something?--why--why--Then the picture of her father's mangled body
would rise before her and all thought of Jack pass out of her mind.

As the train rolled into the grimy station she was the first to spring
from the car; she knew the way best, and the short cut from the station
to where her father lay. Her face was drawn; her eyes bloodshot from
restrained tears--all the color gone from her cheeks.

"You bring Aunt Felicia, Uncle Peter,--and the bags;--I will go ahead,"
she said, tying her veil so as to shield her face. "No, I won't wait for
anything."

News of Ruth's expected arrival had reached the village, and the crowd
at the station had increased. On its inner circle, close to a gate
leading from the platform, stood a young man in a slouch hat, with his
left wrist bandaged. The arm had hung in a sling until the train rolled
in, then the silk support had been slipped and hidden in his pocket.
Under the slouch hat, the white edge of a bandage was visible which
the wearer vainly tried to conceal by pulling the hat further on
his head,--this subterfuge also concealed a dark scar on his temple.
Whenever the young man pressed closer to the gate, the crowd would fall
back as if to give him room. Now and then one would come up, grab his
well hand and pat his shoulder approvingly. He seemed to be as much an
object of interest as the daughter of the injured boss.

When Ruth gained the gate the wounded man laid his fingers on her gloved
wrist. The girl started back, peered into his face, and uttered a cry of
relief.

"Mr. Breen!" For one wild moment a spirit of overwhelming joy welled up
in her heart and shone out of her ey