He was back in a minute, and took up his position near a sawdust-filled box that did duty as a cuspidor.

“Now fire away,” he said.

“In the first place,” I began, “do you remember the day the Washington Flier was wrecked below here?”

“Do I!” he said.  “Did Jonah remember the whale?”

“Were you on the platform here when the first section passed?”

“I was.”

“Do you recall seeing a man hanging to the platform of the last car?”

“There was no one hanging there when she passed here,” he said with conviction.  “I watched her out of sight.”

“Did you see anything that morning of a man about my size, carrying a small grip, and wearing dark clothes and a derby hat?” I asked eagerly.

McKnight was trying to look unconcerned, but I was frankly anxious.  It was clear that the man had jumped somewhere in the mile of track just beyond.

“Well, yes, I did.”  The agent cleared his throat.  “When the smash came the operator at MX sent word along the wire, both ways.  I got it here, and I was pretty near crazy, though I knew it wasn’t any fault of mine.

“I was standing on the track looking down, for I couldn’t leave the office, when a young fellow with light hair limped up to me and asked me what that smoke was over there.

“‘That’s what’s left of the Washington Flier,’ I said, ’and I guess there’s souls going up in that smoke.’

“‘Do you mean the first section?’ he said, getting kind of greenish-yellow.

“‘That’s what I mean,’ I said; ’split to kindling wood because Rafferty, on the second section, didn’t want to be late.’

“He put his hand out in front of him, and the satchel fell with a bang.

“‘My God!’ he said, and dropped right on the track in a heap.

“I got him into the station and he came around, but he kept on groaning something awful.  He’d sprained his ankle, and when he got a little better I drove him over in Carter’s milk wagon to the Carter place, and I reckon he stayed there a spell.”

“That’s all, is it?” I asked.

“That’s all—­or, no, there’s something else.  About noon that day one of the Carter twins came down with a note from him asking me to send a long-distance message to some one in Washington.”

“To whom?” I asked eagerly.

“I reckon I’ve forgot the name, but the message was that this fellow —­Sullivan was his name—­was at M-, and if the man had escaped from the wreck would he come to see him.”

“He wouldn’t have sent that message to me,” I said to McKnight, rather crestfallen.  “He’d have every object in keeping out of my way.”

“There might be reasons,” McKnight observed judicially.  “He might not have found the papers then.”

“Was the name Blakeley?” I asked.

“It might have been—­I can’t say.  But the man wasn’t there, and there was a lot of noise.  I couldn’t hear well.  Then in half an hour down came the other twin to say the gentleman was taking on awful and didn’t want the message sent.”