"If they knew I was here," she said in a hoarse whisper, "my life
wouldn't be safe five minutes. I was waiting to tell you a terrible
story, and then I heard who was on the train due here to-morrow night.
Mr. Watkins, don't, for God's sake, ask me how I found out, but I hope
to die if I ain't telling you the living truth! They're going to wreck
that train--No. 17--at Dead Man's Crossing, fifteen miles east, and rob
the passengers and the express car. It's the worst gang in the country,
_Perry's_. They're going to throw the train off the track the passengers
will be maimed and killed,--and Mr. Sinclair and his wife on the cars!
Oh! My God! Mr. Watkins, send them warning!"

She stood upright, her face deadly pale, her hands clasped. Watkins
walked deliberately to the railroad map which hung on the wall and
scanned it. Then he resumed his seat, laid his pipe down, fixed his eyes
on the girl's face, and began to question her. At the same time his
right hand, with which he had held the pipe, found its way to the
telegraph key. None but an expert could have distinguished any change in
the _clicking_ of the instrument, which had been almost incessant; but
Watkins had "called" the head office on the Missouri. In two minutes the
"sounder" rattled out "_All right! What is it_?"

Watkins went on with his questions, his eyes still fixed on the poor
girl's face, and all the time his fingers, as it were, playing with the
key. If he were imperturbable, so was _not_ a man sitting at a receiving
instrument nearly five hundred miles away. He had "taken" but a few
words when he jumped from his chair and cried:

"Shut that door, and call the superintendent and be quick! Charley,
brace up--lively--and come and write this out!" With his wonderful