In the station Mr. Magee encountered an old friend--he of the mop of ginger-colored hair. The man who had complained of the slowness of the village gazed with wide eyes at Magee. "I figured," he said, "that you'd come this way again. Well, I must say you've put a little life into this place. If I'd known when I saw you here the other night all the exciting things you had up your sleeve, I'd a-gone right up to Baldpate with you." "But I hadn't anything up my sleeve," protested Magee. "Maybe," replied the agent, winking. "There's some pretty giddy stories going round about the carryings-on up at Baldpate. Shots fired, and strange lights flashing--dog-gone it, the only thing that's happened here in years, and I wasn't in on it. I certainly wish you'd put me wise to it." "By the way," inquired Magee, "did you notice the passengers from here on the ten-thirty train last night?" "Ten-thirty," repeated the agent. "Say, what sort of hours do you think I keep? A man has to get some sleep, even if he does work for a railroad. I wasn't here at ten-thirty last night. Young Cal Hunt was on duty then. He's home and in bed now." No help there. Into the night the girl and the two hundred thousand had fled together, and Mr. Magee could only wait, and wonder, as to the meaning of that flight. Two drooping figures entered the station--the mayor and his faithful lieutenant, Max. The dignity of the former had faded like a flower, and the same withered simile might have been applied with equal force to the accustomed jauntiness of Lou. "Good morning," said Mr. Magee in greeting. "Taking an early train, too, eh? Have a pleasant night?" "Young man," replied Cargan, "if you've ever put up at a hotel in a town the size of this, called the Commercial House, you know that last question has just one answer--manslaughter. I heard a minister say once that all drummers are bound for hell. If they are, it'll be a pleasant change for 'em." Mr. Max delved beneath his overcoat, and brought forth the materials for a cigarette, which he rolled between yellow fingers. "If I was a drummer," he said dolefully, "one breakfast--was that what they called it, Jim?--one breakfast like we just passed through would drive me into the awful habit of reading one of these here books of _Drummers' Yarns_." "Sorry," smiled Magee. "We had an excellent breakfast at Mrs. Quimby's. Really, you should have stayed. By the way, where is Bland?"