wer."

When Cassidy came back to earth he was surrounded by half a dozen
good-natured passengers, men and women, who had come out of the
dining-room during the ten or fifteen seconds he had spent in Paradise.

A swift glance at the faces about told him that they had seen, another
at Nora that she was embarrassed; but in two ticks of the office clock
he protected her, as he would his safe; for his work and time had
trained him to be ready instantly for any emergency.

"Good-night, sister," he called cheerily, as he hurried toward the door.

"Good-night, John," said Nora, glancing up from the till, radiant with
the excitement of her "sweet distress."

"Oh, by Jove!" said a man.

"Huh!" said a woman, and they looked like people who had just missed a
boat.

With her face against the window, Nora watched the red lights on the
rear of No. 7 swing out to the main line.

* * * * *

Closing the desk, she climbed to her room on the third floor and knelt
by the window. Away out on the shrouded vale she saw the dark train
creeping, a solid stream of fire flowing from the short stack of the
"shotgun"; for Peasley was pounding her for all she was worth in an
honest effort to make up the hour that Shanley had lost in the
snowdrifts of Marshall Pass. Presently she heard the muffled roar of the
train on a trestle, and a moment later saw the Salt Lake Limited
swallowed by the Black Canon, in whose sunless gorges many a driver died
before the scenery settled after having been disturbed by the builders
of the road.

Over ahead in his quiet car Cassidy sat musing, smoking, and wondering
why Nora should seem so anxious about him. Turning, he glanced about.
Everything looked right, but the girl's anxiety bothered him.

Picking up a bundle of way-bills, he began checking up. The engine
screamed for Sapinero, and a moment later he felt the list as they
rounded Dead Man's Curve.

Unless they were flagged, the next stop would be at Cimarron, at the
other end of the canon.

His work done, the messenger lighted his pipe, settled himself in his
high-backed canvas camp-chair, and put his feet up on his box for a good
smoke. He tried to think of a number of things that had nothing whatever
to do with Nora, but somehow she invariably elbowed into his thoughts.

He leaned over and opened his box--not the strong-box, but the wooden,
trunk-like box that holds the messenger's street-coat when he's on duty
an