"One marked for identification," he chuckled, as he slid along in the deep shadow toward the farther end.
He had satisfied himself of one thing he was anxious about, and with another at hand had no time to waste on a man who could be found in the morning for the mere asking. He was too keen on the question whether Charles Matthewson was in Millbank, to allow a needless diversion. If Matthewson was in town, it showed a terrible uneasiness at the bottom of his wanderings—an uneasiness that forbade his trusting to others for information and yet demanded information at first hands, so imperatively that he was willing to take enormous risks to obtain it.
"It would have been a coincidence, if I'd been murdered to-night," said Trafford, in his wonted confidential talk with himself; "with Matthewson in town as he was the night of the other murder."
Trafford crossed the railroad bridge and so attained the Millbank station without attracting attention. He saw every one of the half-dozen passengers who boarded the train, but found no trace of the man
