fallen asleep. Olga herself appeared a trifle more cheerful. She even smiled, though somewhat wearily, as Seagraves resumed his seat beside her.
"I told you it would be Paul," the woman whispered to Seagraves, as though determined to share no part of her secret with the despised Brandon. "See," she insisted, growing almost jubilant, "it is my brother Paul—come back to me at last!"
"For God's sake, Olga," cried Seagraves disgustedly, "stop that foolishness. It gets on my nerves."
Stillness then for several minutes.
Of a sudden Seagraves felt cold. He turned up his coat collar and, somehow rather depressed, sat looking across at the muffled figure of Brandon who, also evidently having felt the night chill, had wound a muffler about his neck and pulled his ample Stetson low over his face. Seagraves reflected that this would be a fitting case with which to crown a long list of his old friend's successes. Tomorrow he would congratulate him.
A long wild shriek from the locomotive startled Seagraves like an unexpected blow.
"Ha!" he said, "I must be developing nerves after all these years. Anyhow, we're getting in."
Then he raised his eyes and saw that the man, who, he had imagined, resempled Paul Slavsky, had disappeared. So had the only other passenger who had occupied a seat near him. It struck Seagraves as singular.
Another long wail from the locomotive blent dissonantly with the dreary clackety-clack, clackety-clack of the car-wheels, and at the same instant the vestibule door was smashed open. Through it came stumbling, covered with blood, clothing torn to tatters, the identical man who had resembled Paul Slavsky.
His hands were securely cuffed, and he was being partly shoved and partly dragged forward along the aisle for all the world as though he were a wax dummy. His captor was no other than the traveler whom the detective had seen sitting near the dead Terrorist's double.
"He fought like a tiger, Mr. Seagraves, but I finally got him. He's one of Olga’s bunch—a second brother of hers, in fact. He heard that she was hard pressed and just landed from Europe to help her escape."
Joe Seagraves sat like one stupefied. Jim McLean, of the Central Office, cleverly disguised as an innocent-looking rustic, captured a third Slavsky. but how—where?
"It's all right," McLean was explaining. "You see, Renfrow got wind of this fellow's game, got hold of a picture of him and sent me out to ride back with you and Brandon and the lady. I fell asleep in earnest, while pretending to be, and waked up just as my man was slipping out of the car. I got a good look at his face then and, recognizing him, made the first move in a scrap that lasted through six coaches and clear up to the coal-tender."
"Why was the man slipping out?" demanded Seagraves, perplexedly.
"Ah! that's it. I missed you from the car and suspected something wrong. Brandon seemed to be asleep and the woman was laughing. That was enough. I collared my man."
Joe Seagraves reached over and gently shook Brandon, who, still sleeping like a rock, had slumped low down in the angle formed by the seat and the window.
"Come out of it!" the detective bawled at his companion, "we're getting in."
But Brandon slept on. Seagraves waited a moment, then shook him again, almost violently.
"Come on, Larry!" he said, himself rising.
But Brandon did not stir, and Seagraves darted a questioning glance at Olga, still handcuffed fast to the seat. To his amazement and alarm the woman was smiling, triumphantly, terribly. A vague surmise, which had come into Seagrave's head hours before, was now confirmed.
There was no doubting that leering and awful smile. She had bitten the blood from her carmine lips. Olga Slavsky had gone stark mad!
In all the years that followed, Joe
