“It meant that the whole thing had gone up. Old Harrington had carried a gun for me for years, and the same train wouldn’t hold both of us. Of course, I thought that he was in the coach just behind ours.”
Hotchkiss was leaning forward now, his eyes narrowed, his thin lips drawn to a line.
“Are you left-handed, Mr. Sullivan?” he asked.
“No,” he said gruffly. “Can’t do anything with my left hand.” Hotchkiss subsided, crestfallen but alert. “I tore up that cursed telegram, but I was afraid to throw the scraps away. Then I looked around for lower ten. It was almost exactly across—my berth was lower seven, and it was, of course, a bit of exceptional luck for me that the car was number seven.”
“Did you tell your sister of the telegram from Bronson?” I asked.
“No. It would do no good, and she was in a bad way without that to make her worse.”
“Your sister was killed, think.” The shorter detective took a small package from his pocket and held it in his hand, snapping the rubber band which held it.
“Yes, she was killed,” Sullivan said soberly. “What I say now can do her no harm.”
He stopped to push back the heavy hair which dropped over his forehead, and went on more connectedly.
“It was late, after midnight, and we went at once to our berths. I undressed, and then I lay there for an hour, wondering how I was going to get the notes. Some one in lower nine was restless and wide awake, but finally became quiet.
“The man in ten was sleeping heavily. I could hear his breathing, and it seemed to be only a question of getting across and behind the curtains of his berth without being seen. After that, it was a mere matter of quiet searching.
“The car became very still. I was about to try for the other berth, when some one brushed softly past, and I lay back again.
“Finally, however, when things had been quiet for a time, I got up, and after looking along the aisle, I slipped behind the curtains of lower ten. You understand, Mr. Blakeley, that I thought you were in lower ten, with the notes.”
“I’m not trying to defend myself,” he went on. “I was ready to steal the notes—I had to. But murder!”
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Well, I slipped across and behind the curtains. It was very still. The man in ten didn’t move, although my heart was thumping until I thought he would hear it.