The success of the letters—­the attack—­the robbers—­the escape.

The Union depot at St. Louis was ablaze with lights.  The long Kansas City train was standing, all made up, the engine coupled on, and almost ready to pull out.  Belated passengers were rushing frantically from the ticket window to the baggage-room, and then to the train, when a man, wearing side whiskers, and carrying a small valise, parted from his companion at the entrance to the depot, and, after buying a ticket to Kirkwood, entered the smoking car.  His companion, a tall, well-built man, having a smooth face, and a very erect carriage, walked with a business-like step down the platform until he reached the express car.  Tossing the valise which he carried into the car, he climbed in himself with the aid of the hand-rail on the side of the door, and, as the messenger came toward him, he held out his hand, saying: 

“Is this Mr. Fotheringham?”

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“I have a letter from Mr. Bassett for you,” and, taking it from his pocket, he handed it to the messenger.

Fotheringham read the letter carefully, and placing it in his pocket, said: 

“Going to get a job, eh?”

“Yes, the old man said he would give me a show, and as soon as there was a regular run open, he would let me have it.”

“Well, I’m pretty busy now; make yourself comfortable until we pull out, and then I’ll post you up as best I can, Mr. Bronson.”

Mr.  “Bronson” pulled off his overcoat, and, seating himself in a chair, glanced around the car.

In one end packages, crates, butter, egg-cases, and parts of machinery were piled up.  At the other end a small iron safe was lying.  As it caught Bronson’s eye an expression came over his face, which, if Fotheringham had seen, would have saved him a vast amount of trouble.  But the messenger, too busy to notice his visitor, paid him no attention, and in a moment Bronson was puffing his cigar with a nonchalant air, that would disarm any suspicions which the messenger might have entertained, but he had none, as it was a common practice to send new men over his run, that he might “break them in.”

The train had pulled out, and after passing the city limits, was flying through the suburbs at full speed.

Fotheringham, seated in front of his safe, with his way bills on his lap, was checking them off as Bronson called off each item of freight in the car.

The long shriek of the whistle and the jerking of the car caused by the tightening of the air brake on the wheels, showed the train to be approaching a station.

“This is Kirkwood,” said Fotheringham, “nothing for them to-night.”

The train was almost at a standstill, when Bronson, saying “What sort of a place is it?” threw back the door and peered out into the dark.

As he did so, a man passed swiftly by, and in passing glanced into the car.  As Bronson looked, he saw it was the same man that had bought a ticket for Kirkwood and had ridden in the smoker.