That, he told himself, would give him more time. He remained where he was and kept his gaze on the door of the waiting-room. The platform began to fill up again. A four-car local pulled in, emptied its contents and puffed out. The clock pointed to one minute of ten now. It was chilly out there on the platform, for a north wind was blowing down from Lake Erie, and Joe’s thoughts travelled toward the gleaming coffee-urn he had glimpsed a few minutes back. For a moment he debated whether he should seek it and spend a nickel of his small fund, but he decided not to. If Young did put in an appearance he wanted to know it as soon as possible. And at that moment his gaze, travelling over the platform, alighted on the form of a man carrying a suit-case and making his way along toward where Joe was standing with his back to the building. For an instant Joe thought that the other had seen him and was going to speak. But it was the bulletin board that was the attraction, and Joe, turning aside to escape detection in a sudden spasm of nervousness, smelt the odour of a cigarette that was very familiar, heard the other’s grunt of impatience as he read the inscription on the board, and the tread of his feet as he strode away again. Then a mild panic seized Joe and he darted forward. Someone got in front of him. He dodged around and his heart sank, for his first anxious look failed to discover the form it sought. He was already regretting his timorousness when he spied his quarry entering the waiting-room. Joe sped after him. Mr. Chester Young was making his way to the ticket window. Joe made a detour and closed in behind him. At the window he stood at his elbow while he purchased a ticket for Toledo. Young had, it appeared, plenty of money, for he gave a twenty-dollar bill to the ticket-seller and caused that busy gentleman to scowl as he made change. Then Young turned away, walked to the end of a bench, set his bag down, and proceeded to place the bills and silver in his purse. Joe, his heart thumping hard, walked across to him, a slight smile around his mouth. When he was a yard away Young glanced up and a look of surprise and consternation came into his face. “Hello, Young,” said Joe pleasantly. “I was afraid I’d missed you.” CHAPTER XXI ON THE WEST-BOUND Young’s first act was to slip the purse into a pocket of his overcoat, even as his gaze darted stealthily around the waiting-room, and he summoned a smile, not a particularly gladsome smile, to his face. Joe noticed the eternal cigarette tremble between his lips. Then: “Why, hello, Faulkner,” said Mr. Chester Young. “How are you?” “All right, thanks,” replied Joe, his eyes unconsciously dropping for an instant to that pocket into which the fat purse had disappeared. “Sit down a minute, will you; I want to talk to you.”