It is some years since I was station-master, telegraph-operator,
baggage-agent and ticket seller at a little village near some valuable
oil wells.

The station-house was a little distance from the unpretentious
thoroughfare that had grown up in a day, and my duties were so arduous
that I had scarcely leisure for a weekly flitting to a certain mansion
on the hill where dwelt Ellen Morris, my promised wife. In fact, it was
with the hope of lessening the distance between us that I had under
taken these quadruple duties.

The day was gloomy, and towards the afternoon ominous rolls of thunder
portended a storm.

Colonel Holloway, the well-known treasurer of the oil company, had been
in the village several days. About one o'clock he came hurriedly into
the office with a package, which he laid upon my desk, saying:

"Take care of that, Bowen, till to-morrow. I am going up the road."

The commission was not an unusual one, and my safe was one of Marvin's
best. I counted the money, which footed up into the thousands, placed
it in the official envelope, affixed the seals, and deposited it in the
safe. As I turned away from the lock, a voice at the door said:

"Say, mister, can you tell me the way to the post office?"

A sort of shock went through me at the unexpected presence that seemed
to have dropped down from nowhere, and I replied irritably: