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does not figure largely in the schedule of passenger trains, but the next morning the five o'clock north-bound stopped at the station, let off a pair of sleepy passengers, moved slowly ahead, stopped and backed into the switch, where the last car with "Private" lettered on its doors was uncoupled.

A curtain went up behind a screen and the thin face of Luke Taylor peered out from his stateroom. His lips moved and his old eyes roved the visible portion of the little town eagerly.

The chef and porter were astir, very busy, very quiet.

Luke's arrival had been watched. Phil Rowe, hastening into his clothes, stopped long enough to peer out anxiously and then went on, arriving at the precise adjustment of his cravat with dispatch.

Jim Harris rolled over, half hung out of bed, saw the car at the station and lolled back on his pillow, stretching and grinning.

John Taylor, in a stinking cell of the jail, pressed his face against the steel bars of his small window to see. He had not slept, but had paced the floor all night. His hair was rumpled, face drawn and his blue eyes blazed with helpless fury as he watched Phil Rowe hasten down the street and mount the brass railed platform of his father's private car.

Rowe spoke quietly to the porter who replied in a 313