“Yes, Purvis,” replied the heavy young man.  “Runs the Hammondsville local.”

“I am obliged to you both,” said Ashton-Kirk.  “This little hint may be immensely valuable to me.  And now,” to the agent, “if I could have a moment with Conductor Purvis, I would be more grateful to you than ever.”

“His train is out in the shed now,” said the ticket counter, looking at his watch.  “Leaves in eight minutes.”

“I’m sorry that I can’t have him up here for you,” said the passenger agent.  “Just now that is impossible.  But,” inquiringly, “couldn’t you speak to him down on the platform?”

“Of course,” replied Ashton-Kirk.

He and Pendleton arose; the little man with the large white whiskers was thanked once more, as was the heavy young man with the rumpled hair.

“You’ll find the Hammondsville train at Gate E,” the latter informed them.

Then the two shot down to the platform level and made their way toward Gate E.

CHAPTER XI

PENDLETON IS VASTLY ENLIGHTENED

The Hammondsville local was taking on its passengers.  It was a sooty train, made up of three coaches and a combination baggage and smoking car.  The gateman pointed out its conductor, inside, and the two approached him.

He was a spare, elderly man with a wrinkled, shrewd face, and a short, pointed manner of speech.

“Oh, the General Passenger Agent sent you?” said he, examining them.  “All right.  What’s wanted?”

“Your train stops at a station called Cordova, does it not?”

“It stops at every station on the run.  Cordova’s one of them.”

“There is an institution at Cordova, I believe?”

“For deaf and dumb kids—­yes.”

“Of course some of the people from there ride in and out with you at times.”

“I don’t get many of the youngsters.  But the folks that run the place often come to the city.”

“You are acquainted with them, of course.  I mean in the way that local conductors come to be acquainted with their regular riders.”

Purvis grinned.

“Say,” said he.  “It’s hard to get acquainted with some of them asylum people.  There’s only a couple of them that can talk!”

“I see.”  Pendleton noted Ashton-Kirk’s dark eyes fixed steadfastly upon the man’s face as though he desired to read the remainder from his expression.  “There is one of them,” continued the investigator, “whom perhaps you have noticed.  He’s rather a small man, and wears thick glasses.  He also dresses very carefully, and he wears a silk hat.”

“Oh, yes,” said the conductor, “I know him.  He goes in and out quite often.  Very polite too.  Always says good day with his fingers; if the train is crowded, he’s a great little fellow for getting up and giving his seat to the ladies.”

“Have you ever heard his name?”

“Yes.  It’s Locke.  He’s some kind of a teacher.”