On Tuesday afternoon a Boston lawyer, who had been trying a case in Vermont, was standing on the siding at White River Junction when the Canadian Express pulled by on its northward journey.

As the day-coaches at the rear end of the long train swept by him, the lawyer noticed at one of the windows a man's head, with thick rumpled hair.

"Curious," he thought; "that looked like Alexander, but what would he be doing back there in the daycoaches ?" It was, indeed, Alexander.
That morning a telegram from Moorlock had reached him, telling him that there was serious trouble with the bridge and that he was needed there at once, so he had caught the first train out of New York.

He had taken a seat in a day-coach to avoid the risk of meeting any one he knew, and because he did not wish to be comfortable.

When the telegram arrived, Alexander was at his rooms on Tenth Street, packing his bag to go to Boston.