The railroad ran northward on the west side of the Hudson, for Peter had ascertained Hobart Falls to be situated in the Catskill Mountains. After a time the train slipped from behind a range of hills into a tunnel and out again, and Peter, startled from his deep absorption, saw below him the great river, shining blue and silver, in the morning sun. No one who has ever seen it thus suddenly could fail to be impressed by its beauty and grandeur. Peter, city-bred as he was, was strongly affected by the sight of the blue-green wooded hills, lapping and over-lapping, and the great, serene river winding in between. His thoughts ran--"I wonder if I'll be lucky enough to find Walter Lord, and what he'll know.... Gee, those rocks are corking, and those big, soft pines.... It was a long while ago--maybe twenty years since they wore that kind of clothes.... That's a house, way up on that mountain! Must have a ripping view.... And he may be dead by now.... But he mustn't dare to be--I need him too much...." And so his mind ran on, alternating between hope and discouragement, through the hours that followed. He had to change cars twice, each time to a road of narrower gauge. "The next'll be roller skates, I should think," he said to himself as he jerked and bumped along in the little mountain train. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when they ran in to the tiny, ugly, red-painted station of Hobart Falls. They had passed through a number of stations, vociferous with red-faced hackmen and seething with fat, jewelled, and overdressed Hebrews of the middle class. This little place was quite different. There were no big hotels or boarding houses in the immediate vicinity, and so few people that only two trains a day stopped at Hobart Falls. The loungers about the station were obviously country-bred and American. Peter quickly approached one of them and asked where the telegraph office could be found. He wished to ascertain at once if there was anything from O'Malley. The man jerked his thumb in the direction of the waiting room. "In there," he said, briefly, "ticket office," and, with stupid, bovine eyes, watched the stranger as he disappeared inside the station. "Nothing ain't come fer nobody to-day," said the agent, in reply to Peter's inquiry. Peter stepped swiftly out again upon the platform, and looked about him. Blue hills and valleys surrounded the little station on every side. In the middle distance could be seen one or two small farmhouses, and in the immediate foreground, drawn up close to the platform, was a decrepit, dingy Ford. A long, lank man, sitting at the wheel, glanced up at Peter expectantly. "Is this for hire?" asked Peter, indicating the ancient car with a motion of his head. "And can you take me to the village?" The driver grinned at a man who was leaning against the edge of the doorway, and spat, generously, over the wheel. "Git in," he said, laconically.