When the conductor had left, and unable, through sheer mental agony, to go back to sleep, Walton crawled out of the bunk and stood up. His legs, arms, and neck were stiff, and twinges of pain darted through his muscles as he moved. Standing in the open door, he looked out over the vast stretch of railway tracks. The gray light of dawn shrouded everything. Over the tops of cars, heaps of old scrap-iron, blinking vari-colored signal-lights, and bridges which spanned the tracks he saw the spectre-like outlines of the State Capitol's drab dome, and farther to the left the tall office-buildings in the centre of the city. Just then a man came round the end of the car, and, with a start of surprise, recognized him. It was a railway mail-carrier who had once lived at Stafford. “Why, hello, Fred!” he cried, rubbing his eyes, for he had just risen from his bed. “What are you doing down this way at break of day?” Walton hesitated; a tinge of color came into his pale face. “Ran down for a trip with Jack Thomas,” he answered; “this is his cab.” “Oh yes--I see. Where _is_ Jack?” “Had to go up-town.” “You haven't had your breakfast yet, I'll bet. Come on and take a snack with me. There is a good all-night eating-house up by the Viaduct.” “Thanks, I've got to hang around here for a while.” “Well, so long!” the man said, with a backward look of perplexity, as he moved away. “I'll see you uptown, I reckon.” Walton stood down on the ground and looked about him; then he saw something that drove him back into the car. It was a policeman in uniform a hundred yards away. He seemed to emerge from the cattle-yard on the left, and was walking along slowly, looking under cars and trying their sliding doors. He would stoop to the cross-ties and peer carefully at the trucks, and move on again to repeat the process at each car of the long train, the engine of which was fired for leaving. Walton sank to a seat on the cot; the man was searching for him. There would be no escape. Presently a feeling of relief came to him in the reflection that his fears were ungrounded, for his father, not having read the letter he had left on his desk, could not yet know of his flight. The old man never went to the bank earlier than eight in the morning, and it could not now be later than five. Yes, the officer was looking for some one else. The fugitive breathed more freely for a few minutes; then another shock quickly followed the first. It was now plain--horribly plain. His father, having sent him to the bank for a statement of his account the evening before, had waited up for him, his impatience and suspicion growing as the hours passed. Old Simon could not have slept while a matter of that nature remained unsettled. He had waited, pacing the floor of his room, till nine; till ten; till eleven; and then, full of gravest alarm as to the safety of his funds, he had gone down to the bank to ascertain the cause of the delay. In his mind's eye, Fred