"Have you, dear?" Miss Harvey said. "That was very thoughtful of you—I'm sure he'll be here presently then. And now, dear, it is much better that you should go."
There were no tears in Helena's eyes as she stepped down from the car vestibule to the tracks—only a drawn misery in her face. That was Doc over there, pacing up and down on the platform in the darkness—wasn't it weird the way his cigar glowed bright and then went out and then glowed bright again—like a gigantic firefly!
She was across the tracks before he saw her, then, hurrying forward, he helped her to the platform.
"Well?" he asked quickly.
Helena did not answer.
Madison took the cigar from his lips, leaned forward, and peered into Helena's face—then drew back with a low whistle.
"Dead?" he said.
Helena nodded.
"Miss Harvey wants to see you," she said.
"Say," said Madison slowly, "first crack out of the box this looks bad, don't it? If this gets around here without a muffler on it, it might make the railroad companies hang fire with those circulars for excursion rates to Needley—what?"
"I—I think I hate you!" Helena cried out suddenly, passionately. "She's—she's dead—and that's all you think about!"
Madison stared at Helena for a moment calmly.
"Now, look here, Helena," said he quietly,
