“That was it—not quite the correct name, but so near that I shuddered with the fear that other parties were looking up the same case—which would, of course, head my work for the discard. With that fear in mind I was unable to prevent myself from listening. I am sorry.” We both begged him not to speak of such a thing as no offense could possibly be taken, and I asked him to tell me the right name of the street. “Torrington Road,” he answered. “Of course I saw in a moment—or rather heard—that although the case was the same that I’d been working on, you gentlemen were making no special drive at it. But in addition to thus dispelling my anxiety, the few words I overheard supplied me with the answer to the only question that has completely baffled me up to the present time. For two years I’ve been making fruitless efforts to find out who shadowed Jamie Dreek from the South Station in Boston to the old mansion in Roxbury on that August night, and what object he could have had in view, seeing that nothing ever came of it; and this evening I happen to drop in for dinner at a place I’ve never patronized before, and the answer comes across to me from the next table!” We agreed that it was a strange coincidence, all right, and as he seemed to be on the point of withdrawing I asked him—more to detain him than anything else, for it seemed that he must be charged up to the muzzle with interesting stuff—if he happened to know how it was the Dreek chap was sitting in a coach on the Boston train after I’d seen him go out of New Haven on the New York express. “Very simple,” Barnes answered. “He sat with his mother as the New York train went down through the yards, and after it got headway enough for the old woman to feel easy about him, he shoved a wad of bills into her lap, saying, ‘Hold that for me, will ye—I want to go to the smoker,’ walked back to the rear platform, and a second later let himself down by the knuckle of the coupler, which projected a few inches, and dropped off. His mother saw his valise in the rack and didn’t worry. It was somewhere along under the Cedar Street bridge and they don’t get into any speed by then, so he was up in a second or two and sprinting back for the Boston train—the one you were on” (looking at me). “Nothing much at stake you see, as he could have got No. 30 four hours later if he’d missed it. But he didn’t. You must have noted the fact that you can always make a train if there’s no special need of it.” He was getting out a pocketbook as he talked, and laying a card on the table, murmured something about his name being Barnes and that he was taking the liberty of introducing himself; whereupon we very informally introduced each other. And the man, who appeared to be in a hurry, was just turning away as Dudley mentioned the fact (having given my name) that I was a staff reporter on a New York Daily. Upon this Mr. Barnes rather abruptly turned back and stood looking at me.