The wall was that of a booth in the café of the Shelby House. It was a partition of matched sheathing only, through which ordinary conversation in the adjoining booth could be easily overheard, and both men in this case spoke above an ordinary tone. Obviously, therefore, they were discussing nothing of a private nature, or anything thought to be of much importance, or serious significance. It meant no more to them, in fact, than it would have meant to most men, to all save one in a million. That one in a million was seated alone in the next booth—Nick Carter. The two men were strangers to the detective. They had entered when he was near the end of his lunch, and while waiting for their orders to be served they engaged in the conversation which, though heard only by chance, soon seriously impressed the detective. “You were a little later than usual this noon, Belden,” said one. “Yes, a few minutes, Joe, but I thought you would wait for me. My ticker got busy just as I was about to leave. I remained to take the dispatch, Gordon, and it proved to be quite a long one.” “Something important?” “Not very. Only political news for the local paper.” “Belden evidently is a telegraph operator,” thought Nick. “Anything warm by wire this morning?” questioned Gordon. “No, nothing,” said Belden; and then he abruptly added: “There was a singular message, however, and an unusual circumstance in connection with it.” “How so, Arthur?” “The dispatch was addressed to John Dalton, and we were instructed to hold it till called for,” Belden explained. “I looked in the local directory, but it contained no John Dalton. I inferred that he was a traveling man, or a visitor in town, whose address was not known by the sender.” “Naturally.” “Strange to say, however, he showed up in about five minutes and asked if we had a dispatch for him.” “Why, is there anything strange in that? He evidently was expecting it.” “It was strange that he came in so quickly, almost while I was receiving the message. That, too, was singular.” “The message?” “Yes.” “Why so?” “As I remember it, Joe, it read: ‘Dust flying. S. D. on way. Ware eagle,’” said Belden. “It was signed with only a single name—‘Martin.’” It was then that Nick Carter pricked up his ears and leaned nearer to the wall to hear what the two men were saying. “By Jove, that was a bit singular,” remarked Gordon. “I thought so.” “Dust flying, eh?” Gordon laughed. “The dispatch must have come from a windy city.” “It came from Philadelphia.” “I’m wrong, then. Not even dust flies in Philadelphia. Did Dalton send an answer?” “Not that I know of; certainly not from our office.” “Or volunteer any explanation?” “No. It probably was a code message, or had some secret significance. He took the dispatch and departed.” “A stranger to you, eh?”