The dark, heavy cars slipped by. The red glow of the fuse was overcome by the white light from the south. The last black Pullman of thirty-three cleared the points. With a gasping breath Tolliver threw the switch lever. "It's too late now, Sonny," he said to the importunate child. The tower shook. A hot, white eye flashed by, and a blurred streak of cars. Snow pelted in the window, stinging Tolliver's face. Tolliver closed the window and picked up thirty-three's orders. If he had kept the revolver here he could have prevented Joe's leaving the tower. Why had Sally locked it in the cupboard? At least it was there now. Tolliver found himself thinking of the revolver as an exhausted man forecasts sleep. Someone ran swiftly up the stairs. It was the engineer of thirty-three, surprised and impatient. "Where are my orders, Tolliver? I don't want to lie over here all night." He paused. His tone became curious. "What ails you, Tolliver?" Tolliver handed him the orders, trembling. "I guess maybe my wife at the house is dead, or--You'll go see." The engineer shook his head. "You brace up, Tolliver. I'm sorry if anything's happened to your wife, but we couldn't hold thirty-three, even for a murder." Tolliver's trembling grew. He mumbled incoherently: "But I didn't murder all those people----" "Report to division headquarters," the engineer advised. "They'll send you help to-morrow." He hurried down the stairs. After a moment the long train pulled out, filled with warm, comfortable people. The child, his sobbing at an end, watched it curiously. Tolliver tried to stop his shaking. There was someone else on the stairs now, climbing with an extreme slowness. A bare arm reached through the trap, wavering for a moment uncertainly. Ugly bruises showed on the white flesh. Tolliver managed to reach the trap. He grasped the arm and drew into the light the dark hair and the chalky face of his wife. Her wide eyes stared at him strangely. "Don't touch me," she whispered. "What am I going to do?" "Joe?" "Why do you tremble so?" she asked in her colorless voice, without resonance. "Why didn't you come?" "Joe?" he repeated hysterically. She drew away from him. "You won't want to touch me again." He pointed to the repellant bruises. She shook her head. "He didn't hurt me much," she whispered, "because I--I killed him." She drew her other hand from the folds of her wrapper. The revolver dangled from her fingers. It slipped and fell to the floor. The child stared at it with round eyes, as if he longed to pick it up. She covered her face and shrank against the wall. "I've killed a man----" Through her fingers she looked at her husband fearfully. After a time she whispered: "Why don't you say something?" His trembling had ceased. His lips were twisted in a grin. He, too, wondered why he didn't say something. Because there were no words for what was in his heart. In a corner he arranged his overcoat as a sort of a bed for the boy.