“Then from the outside, he motioned me to follow.  He wanted to talk to me, but would not risk doing so where we might be seen.  I sat down for awhile, then, as casually as I could, followed him onto the station platform.  I saw him down at the far end near the baggage room.  Again he motioned to me to follow him.  And he started out past the baggage room into the railroad yards.

“I was very grateful to him.  He was taking no risk of our being seen together.  I followed slowly—­not seeing him, but knowing that he would be waiting for me out there.  You understand where I mean?  It is in that section of the railroad yards where through trains leave their early morning Pullmans—­the tracks are parallel to Atlantic Avenue—­and also the main line tracks running into the Union Station shed.

“I was conscious of the intense cold, but excitement buoyed me up.  I passed through the gate which ordinarily bars passengers from the tracks, but which that night had either been left open or opened by Roland.  The wind, as I stepped from under the shelter of the station shed, was terrific:  howling across the yards, stinging with sleet.  It was very slippery under foot—­I had to watch closely.  And I was just a trifle nervous because here and there through the yards I could see lanterns—­yard workers and track walkers, I presume.  And occasionally the headlight of a switch engine zigzagged across the tracks—­I was afraid I’d be caught in the glare—­

“Finally, I saw Warren.  He had walked about a hundred and fifty yards down the track and was standing in the shelter of the Pullman office building.  It was very dark there—­just enough light for me to make out his silhouette.  I started forward—­then stopped:  frightened.

“For I distinctly saw the figure of a man coming into the yards from Atlantic Avenue.  From the moment I noticed him I had the peculiar impression that the man had not only seen Mr. Warren and intended speaking to him—­but also that the meeting was not unexpected.  I stopped where I was and strained my eyes through the darkness—­

“I could not see much—­save that they were talking.  Of course I could hear nothing.  I was shivering—­but more with premonition of tragedy than with the terrific cold.  Then suddenly I saw the two shadows merge—­the combined shadow whirled strangely.  I knew that Mr. Warren was fighting with this other man.

“I started forward again.  Then I saw one of the shadows step back from the other.  There was the flash of a revolver—­no noise, because a train was rolling under the shed at the moment.  But I saw the flash of the gun.  I stood motionless, horrified.  I didn’t advance, didn’t run—­

“I knew that the man who had been shot was Mr. Warren.  I didn’t know what to do.  I felt suddenly lost; hopeless—­And watching, I saw one figure stoop and lift the prostrate man.  He dragged him across the tracks to the inky darkness between the Pullman offices and the rear of the baggage room.  I don’t know what he did there—­but I remember looking toward Atlantic Avenue and seeing a yellow taxicab parked against the curb.  I could see that there was no one in the driver’s seat—­and while I watched I saw the man who had done the shooting drag Mr. Warren’s body to the taxicab.  It was dark in the street—­the arc light on the corner was out—­