The train thundered into the station and out again, but Peter took no notice. His plans had undergone a complete change. The agent, who was also the expressman as well as the telegraph operator, was surprised to find the intending passenger still there though not so much so as he would have been if he, himself, had not received the queer telegram. He was somewhat prepared for the question with which the stranger greeted his reappearance. "What's the next train for Fennimore Park?" Peter asked, quickly. "Ain't no train for there on this line," answered the agent, helpfully. "Ye have t' go back to the junction and ketch the Mountain Express there. Ye should have taken number fifty-three down," he jerked his head in the direction of the rapidly receding rumble. Peter's silence was more profane than any speech. Then a sudden thought struck him. He threw a withering glance at the indifferent agent, and jumped to the door opposite to the one on the platform. He was just in time to see a tired flivver strolling slowly down the dusty road. "Josh!" he yelled, at the top of his voice. "Josh!" His lungs were strong, and his intent was sincere. Slowly the old car came to a standstill and the driver, craning his long neck, looked back down the road. "Ye want me?" he bellowed. Peter answered with a peremptory wave of the hand. The creaking car turned in a cloud of dust, and came slowly back. "How far is it to Fennimore Park from here?" Peter asked, as soon as it came within reasonable calling distance. "Pretty clost to twenty mile," said Josh, promptly. "Why?" "Is the old boat good for it?" Peter eyed the poor old car with some disfavour. "Ye betcha she is," said Josh, enthusiastically. "I told ye, she's the best car in town. Want I should take ye there? I'll do it fer five." Peter wasted no more time. He jumped, bag and all, into the back seat. "Shoot!" was all he said. He was silent for almost the entire way--thinking--thinking--thinking---- The old car bumped and skidded over the mountain roads, and groaned and laboured up the long, rough hills. Peter kept himself in by clinging to the iron braces of the top, but aside from these automatic efforts at self-preservation he was practically unconscious of the way they went. A strange thought had come to him in Walter Lord's old photograph studio. A thought so odd and bizarre that at first it seemed absolutely impossible and insane. And then he began piecing things together. Bit by bit, apparently unconnected scraps of information were fitted together, now this way and now that. Once, making sure that the driver was completely occupied with the difficulties of the winding road, Peter took from his pocket the letter he had appropriated. ("Stolen, dammit!" he thought, disgustedly. "Mine's a hell of a job for a decent man. But if I could prove, even to myself----") He looked long and wonderingly at the letter before he slipped it back into an inner pocket.