the cigar which Quest was offering.

"They've been going the wrong way to work, these New York police," he
declared. "Just because there was a train on the other track moving
slowly, they got it into their heads that Macdougal had boarded it and was
back in New York somewhere. That ain't my theory. If I were looking for
James Macdougal, I'd search the hillsides there. I'll show you what I mean
when we get alongside."

"You may be right," Quest admitted. "Anyway, we'll start on the job."

The section boss turned around and whistled. From a little side track two
men jumped on to a hand-car, and brought it round to where they were
standing. A few yards away, the man who was propelling it--a great
red-headed Irishman--suddenly ceased his efforts. Leaning over his pole,
he gazed at Quest. A sudden ferocity darkened his coarse face. He gripped
his mate by the arm.

"See that bloke there?" he asked, pointing at Quest.

"The guy with the linen collar?" the other answered. "I see him."

"That's Quest, the detective," the Irishman went on hoarsely. "That's the
man who got me five years in the pen, the beast. That's the man I've been
looking for. You're my mate, Jim, eh?"

"I guess so," the other grunted. "Are you going to try and do him in?"

"You wait!"