Kennedy sat in silence most of the time, his
eyes closed, as if he were trying to place himself in the position
of the others and figure out what they would do.
At last we arrived, the only passengers to get off at the little
old station. Which way to turn we had not the slightest idea. We
looked about. Even the ticket office was closed. It looked as
though we might almost as well have stayed in New York.
Down the railroad we could see that a great piece of engineering
was in progress, raising the level of the tracks and building a
steel viaduct, as well as a new station, and at the same time not
interrupting the through traffic, which was heavy.
"Surely there must be some one down there," observed Kennedy, as
we picked our way across the steel girders, piles of rails, and
around huge machines for mixing concrete.
We came at last to a little construction house, a sort of general
machine-and work-shop, in which seemed to be everything from a
file to a pneumatic riveter.
"Hello!" shouted Craig.
There came a sound from a far corner of a pile of ties and a
moment later a night-watchman advanced suspiciously swinging his
lantern.
"Hello yourself," he growled.
"Which way to Stuart Whitney's estate?" asked Craig.
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