“Wall, ye see he took the seat two in front o’ me, and every time I woke up--say, them air seats hain’t made to sleep comfortable in, be they--thar he was, till all of a sudden I woke up an’ he warn’t thar.” “Then you don’t know where he got off,” Trafford said, keeping the disappointment out of his voice. “No. Ye see, when we pulled out of ’Gusta, he was thar, an’ I didn’t wake up ag’in till we got to Brunswick, an’ he warn’t thar. I meant to see whar he went to, but arter ’Gusta, I guessed he must be from Portland and that’s whar I got left.” “I suppose you hear from Millbank--from Oldbeg, for instance.” “Wall,” he said, blushing a fiery red, “Jonathan hain’t no great hand to write: but I du hear sometimes. Say, du you s’pose a body could ’a’ heerd that thar shot from Parlin’s house down onto Canaan Street?” “I don’t know,” said the detective carelessly, hiding his eagerness. “A still night, it might be; why?” “’Cause, a letter I got says that thar night she’d jest got to sleep when she woke up sudden, as if she’d heerd so’thing like a shot. She got up, but didn’t hear nothin’ more an’ so went back to bed. But the next mornin’ she guessed ’twas the shot she heerd from Parlin’s.” “Did she say what time it was?” “Nope: only she’d ben asleep about half a hour, an’ thet night she didn’t get to bed ’fore twelve o’clock. Fact, I guess she didn’t go till she heerd the train leave.” “But about this swell,” Trafford interposed. “Would you know him again if you saw him?” “I guess I would; leastwise ef I could see the top of his head. He took his hat off, an’ thar was the funniest little bald spot, jest the shape of a heart. ’Twas funny, an’ he warn’t more’n thirty years old. Say, when he gets to be fifty, he won’t hev no more hair’n I’ve got on the back o’ my hand.” The next afternoon, a card was brought to Charles Matthewson, Esq., in his inner office in Augusta, and on the card he read, printed in small square letters: “ISAAC TRAFFORD.” “What in thunder does Trafford want of me?” he asked himself. “He can’t possibly know!” He sat and looked at the card, while the boy waited and finally coughed to remind him he was still there. Matthewson looked up with a puzzled air. Evidently he did not care to see the man whose name was on the card, and as evidently he did not dare refuse him. Finally he said: “Show him in in five minutes.” When Trafford entered, in the very act of bowing, he cast a quick glance at the top of Matthewson’s head. There was the odd bald spot, shaped, as Jim Shepard had said, “Jest like a heart.” “What can I do for you, Mr. Trafford?” Matthewson asked, with the air of a busy man. “I want about ten minutes’ talk with you,” the detective answered, drawing a chair close to the desk. “Professional?” “Yes;--my profession.”