Langham passed down the long platform.  The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady.  He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end.  He had suffered and endured but now he was safe!

Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night.  Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge.  It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before.

As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe.  He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders.  A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham’s approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face.  It was Joe Montgomery.  Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery’s match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness.

Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him.  He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession.  How was he to deal with the situation?

“There ain’t much Irish about me!” said Montgomery, with a casual oath.

There was a moment of silence.  The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match.

“Why have you come back, Joe?” asked Langham finally, when he could command himself.

Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth.

“Is that you, Boss Langham?” he faltered.

He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near.

“Are you by yourself, boss?” he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice.  He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered.

“Yes,” said Langham.  “I’m alone.”