One of the passengers picked up the man's hand-grip that had fallen from
his berth, and found that the card held in the leather tag read:

"JOHN BRADISH."

"Go forward," shouted the conductor to the rear brakeman, "and get 'em
out of here,--tell McNally we've got the ghost."

The detective released his hold on his captive, and the man sank limp in
the corner seat.

The company's surgeon, who happened to be on the car, came over and
examined the prisoner. The man had collapsed completely.

When the doctor had revived the handcuffed passenger and got him to sit
up and speak, the porter, wild-eyed, burst in and shouted: "De bridge is
gone."

A death-like hush held the occupants of the car.

"De hangin' bridge is sho' gone," repeated the panting porter, "an' de
engine, wi' McNally in de cab's crouchin' on de bank, like a black cat
on a well-cu'b. De watah's roahin' in de deep gorge, and if she drap she
gwine drag--"

The doctor clapped his hand over the frightened darky's mouth, and the
detective butted him out to the smoking-room.

The conductor explained that the porter was crazy, and so averted a
panic.

The detective came back and faced the doctor. "Take off the irons," said
the surgeon, and the detective unlocked the handcuffs.

Now the doctor, in his suave, sympathetic way, began to question
Bradish; and Bradish began to unravel the mystery, pausing now and again
to rest, for the ordeal through which he had just passed had been a
great mental and nervous strain.

He began by relating the Ashtabula accident that had left him wifeless
and childless, and, as the story progressed, seemed to find infinite
relief in relating the sad tale of his lonely life. It was like a
confession. Moreover, he had kept the secret so long locked in his
troubled breast that it was good to pour it out.

The doctor sat directly in front of the narrator, the detective beside
him, while interested passengers hung over the backs of seats and
blocked the narrow aisle. Women, with faces still blanched, sat up in
bed listening breathlessly to the strange story of John Bradish.

Shortly after returning to their old home, he related, he was awakened
one night by the voice of his wife calling in agonized tones, "John!
John!" precisely as she had cried to him through the smoke and steam and
twisted debris at Ashtabula. He leaped from his bed, heard a mighty
roar, saw a great light flash on his window, and the midnight express
crashe