“I know,” said Ronicky.  “Then I come and spoiled the whole party.  Sure makes me sick to think about it.”

“And now she’s plumb gone,” muttered Bill Gregg.  “I thought maybe the reason I didn’t have her correcting my lessons any more was because she’d had to leave the schools and go West.  So, right after I got this drilling through the leg, you remember, I wrote a letter?”

“Sure.”

“It was to her at the schools, but I didn’t get no answer.  I guess she didn’t go back there after all.  She’s plumb gone, Ronicky.”

The other was silent for a moment.  “How much would you give to find her?” he asked suddenly.

“Half my life,” said Bill Gregg solemnly.

“Then,” said Ronicky, “we’ll make a try at it.  I got an idea how we can start on the trail.  I’m going to go with you, partner.  I’ve messed up considerable, this little game of yours; now I’m going to do what I can to straighten it out.  Sometimes two are better than one.  Anyway I’m going to stick with you till you’ve found her or lost her for good.  You see?”

Bill Gregg sighed.  “You’re pretty straight, Ronicky,” he said, “but what good does it do for two gents to look for a needle in a haystack?  How could we start to hit the trail?”

“This way.  We know the train that she took.  Maybe we could find the Pullman conductor that was on it, and he might remember her.  They got good memories, some of those gents.  We’ll start to find him, which had ought to be pretty easy.”

“Ronicky, I’d never of thought of that in a million years!”

“It ain’t thinking that we want now, it’s acting.  When can you start with me?”

“I’ll be fit tomorrow.”

“Then tomorrow we start.”

Chapter Five

Macklin’s Library

Robert Macklin, Pullman conductor, had risen to that eminent position so early in life that the glamour of it had not yet passed away.  He was large enough to have passed for a champion wrestler or a burly pugilist, and he was small enough to glory in the smallest details of his work.  Having at the age of thirty, through a great deal of luck and a touch of accident, secured his place, he possessed, at least, sufficient dignity to fill it.

He was one of those rare men who carry their dignity with them past the doors of their homes.  Robert Macklin’s home, during the short intervals when he was off the trains, was in a tiny apartment.  It was really one not overly large room, with a little alcove adjoining; but Robert Macklin had seized the opportunity to hang a curtain across the alcove, and, since it was large enough to contain a chair and a bookshelf, he referred to it always as his “library.”

He was this morning seated in his library, with his feet protruding through the curtains and resting on the foot of his bed, when the doorbell rang.  He surveyed himself in his mirror before he answered it.  Having decided that, in his long dressing gown, he was imposing enough, he advanced to the door and slowly opened it.