"So they are undertakers now. Queer business to be in." He stepped into the station and peered through the bars of the ticket window at the station agent who sat in the inner office, chair tilted back against the wall, an odoriferous corn cob pipe clutched between toothless gums. The station agent brought his chair to a level and slowly rose and slouched to the window. Following which effort was a long argument during which the dirty faced boy finally convinced the station agent that he needed an assistant, had always needed one, and that he was the assistant needed. After due attention had been called to the ancient dirt covered floor, the dust of the station benches, and litter of bygone lunches, the job was landed and an hour later found the station undergoing a long-needed cleaning at the hands of the new assistant. The dirty faced boy had found employment, food, shelter--and the opportunity of acquiring the contents of every telegram entering or leaving the station! And as the dirty faced boy was Dixie Mason, the information was priceless to her--and the interests she served. While members of the Criminology Club passed days of waiting, armed and ready for any emergency that might arise, Dixie pursued her purpose with relentless activity in and around Exeter. She first of all established the fact that the undertaking business of J.B. Dollings was a comparatively new departure. That while he had several assistants constantly in attendance, his establishment was little patronized and he made no efforts to gain patronage. Dixie found that Heinric von Lertz and Madam Stephan made their daily headquarters in a new, roughly constructed building, among the hills at the outskirts of the village where a small city of tents had sprung up miraculously, housing laborers strangely inactive for a grading outfit. She found that hundreds of men were gathering daily. At night, snuggled close to a great boulder, Dixie watched the activities of the camp and saw wagons loaded to their limit with supplies winding their way along the gorge roads. And she saw the men gathering at the board building for meetings. One afternoon Dixie, attractive in spite of dirty face, towsled mop of hair, rough clothes, ran across the street to J.B. Dolling's shop. "A carload of caskets just came in for you, Mr. Dollings." Mr. Dollings' long clawlike fingers clutched the bill in obvious excitement. "Where--where are they?" He reached for his hat and hurried around the counter. "The caskets? Over on the first track. I'll show you----" "No, never mind, never mind. The number of the car's on the bill of lading. I'll find it." As Dixie lingered outside she heard him calling hoarsely, "Bloedt! Rudolph! Mahlen! The caskets have come. Get teams at once. We must unload them at once. Hurry! Must send a telegram!"