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 of passengers, and Barney manœuvered to get a good look at the wearer of it. The sum of his observation was that the man appeared inoffensive. He was well-dressed, but his clothes showed both the wear that they had had and the care that had been taken of them. He carried gloves—though it was so warm—but they were soiled leather gloves that had evidently weathered the winter. He was an oldish young man, an office worker probably, well-featured, of the lean type. Barney had often delivered telegrams to his kind, in downtown offices, behind spindle railings at secretarial desks. The only thing unusual about him was the set look of distant expectancy with which he kept his eyes fixed on nothing ahead of him, uneasily, excitedly, but with no guilty suspicion of any one around him.

He pushed his way through the stream of passengers that went ashore with him, and Barney had to race to keep up. In the train-shed, he went directly to his train, with the assurance of custom, knowing exactly where