and the rain had ceased. Once, toward morning, I wakened with a
start, for no apparent reason, and sat bolt upright. I had an
uneasy feeling that some one had been looking at me, the same
sensation I had experienced earlier in the evening at the window.
But I could feel the bag with the notes, between me and the
window, and with my arm thrown over it for security, I lapsed
again into slumber. Later, when I tried to piece together the
fragments of that journey, I remembered that my coat, which had
been folded and placed beyond my restless tossing, had been rescued
in the morning from a heterogeneous jumble of blankets, evening
papers and cravat, had been shaken out with profanity and donned
with wrath. At the time, nothing occurred to me but the necessity
of writing to the Pullman Company and asking them if they ever
traveled in their own cars. I even formulated some of the letter.

"If they are built to scale, why not take a man of ordinary stature
as your unit?" I wrote mentally. "I can not fold together like
the traveling cup with which I drink your abominable water."

I was more cheerful after I had had a cup of coffee in the Union
Station. It was too early to attend to business, and I lounged in
the restaurant and hid behind the morning papers. As I had expected,
they had got hold of my visit and its object. On the first page was
a staring announcement that the forged papers in the Bronson case
had been brought to Pittsburg. Underneath, a telegram from
Washington stated that Lawrence Blakeley, of Blakeley and McKnight,
had left for Pittsburg the night before, and that, owing to the
approaching trial of the Bronson case and the illness of John
Gilmore, the Pittsburg millionaire, who was the chief witness for
the prosecution, it was supposed that the visit was intimately