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THE TURNING POINT
j By H. M. Egbert.
( Jim Washipgton, the porter, -went
to the door of his car. Upon the plat
form of the next car another porter
stood, snatching a few inhalations
from a cigarette.
"Howdy, Joe," said -Jim. "Your car
' Joe drew in a cloud and flung the
s'tump away. "Mostly women," he
said. "How's yours?"
"Tolerable' Jim answered. "Say,
Joe, there's a girl in Section 2 been
fThe Line Was Strewn With
J ments of the Wreck.
erying ever since I come on at Spring
field. I reckon she left her fellow be
hind. Well, I reckon business will be
better next month, when the regular
crowd starts north."
Only the porter had observed the
girl in Section 2, for she was at the
end of the car. Hilda Mercer opened
her suit-case and pushed her damp
handkerchief into its bulging con
tents; she drew out a ciean one, a
powder puff, and a pad with a little
pencil attached, and began. to write.
"I should not have left you if you
had been frank with me, Will," she
wrote. "What I cannot forgive is "
She stopped and stared out into the
driving rain. "It was because I al
ways believed in you," she continued.
But the letter was tear-spotted, and
she tore it into strips and watched
them flutter out into the storm. They
followed the car awhile, a flying pack
of haunting memories. She would not
write that letter. She had written
one, and Will would find it when he
returned to. New York the following
morning at eight o'clock.
Two men were seated in the smok
ing car. One was about five and thir
ty years of age; he might have been
an acountant or bank cashier, for he
had the alert air of one who is in the
deadly struggle of commercial life.
The other lolled heavily in his seat,
scanning the first man with furtive
persistence. Suddenly he leaned for
ward, a curious smile upon his mouth.
"Aren't you the paying teller of the
Merchants' and Brokers' over in
Brooklyn?" he inquired. "I ask be
cause you said it was a pity there
was no way of catching a return train
to New York by tomorrow morning.
I thought maybe you were on a week
end vacation. I'm sure I've got you
right. My name's Phil Graves. I used
to have an account with you."
The other seemed stunned by he
recognition. "I used to be there,"
he answered, his voice quavering
slightly. He wanted to go out, but
felt that the other suspected him of
something. It seemed hours before
his acquaintance rose", with a nod,
and that same curious smile. Then
he made his way back to Section 3,
opposite the girl.
Hilda started and looked round at
him. Their eyes met, and the teller
rose up and stood before her.
"Don't you remember me, Mrs,
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