The train was leaving the station. Bingley caught the railing of the first-class coach, swung on, and staggered by Routledge into the car. Milner signified with a final gesture that he would look after the rights of America and the _World-News_. Bingley, panting hoarsely, was stretched out in his compartment when the American entered. He did not look up, and no word passed between them. For a moment Routledge hoped it might be different--that day might bring to him something of the life or death of Jerry Cardinegh. As the alleged author of the Indian treachery, he could not bring himself to seek the other’s notice. He wondered if Bingley had used the crime charged against him, to hold him in Wangcheng. This would have been natural; certainly he had whispered to the British Consul in the garrison. At all events, the swiftness of Milner’s efforts in his behalf had killed the result of such an intent. Routledge fell asleep. It was after ten when he awoke. The “Horse-killer” was writing steadily, swiftly, fighting sleep, his eyes cocked open like a stuffed bird’s, and referring often to a carefully crowded note-book, the like of which he had carried in India.... Routledge started on his story. An hour’s sleep had quieted his brain a trifle. Before, his thoughts had darted about, like tumbler pigeons at play--in that queer light fashion of extreme fatigue. With the structure placed, he began to spend the great coiled chronicle at a swift, steady pressure. For the first time in his life he turned loose all that he had for a newspaper. The hurl of power glorified him for the time--work’s chaste and lofty joy--until he was beyond misery or any earthly evil. Without thinking, he turned to Bingley at last: “We both want the free cable at Shanhaikwan,” he said briefly. “One of us will reach it first. It might be well to arrange for the winner to turn over the wire--at the end of, say, two hours--then both London and New York would have the story in the morning.” “No,” said the “Horse-killer” coldly. “I shall put on whole story at once, and there will be five columns or more of it.” Routledge laughed inwardly, surprised at himself for speaking, and just a little appalled at the grim nerve of the other. In the great glow from his work, he had followed a generous impulse to give Bingley and the _Thames_ a chance that night--on the basis of his meeting a man at Shanhaikwan, with the best horse in the town. In the emancipation of high expression, the sense of rivalry had been lost, and he saw that Bingley was entitled to no little consideration, even if he were beaten by a nose to the cable-door. Routledge went on with his work, his compunctions eased.