Phillips. It arrived this morning.” Joseph Phillips took the card from the concierge at the New York hotel. “Thank you, Jones.” He glanced quickly at the dispatch. London. “So they found me, eh?” The pert Mr. Jones smiled boyishly. “It’s a big country, sir, but I’ve learned in my work that if someone wants to find you, you’ll get found.” Joseph chortled and took the missive to the lounge, finding a quiet corner with an opulently overstuffed chair. He sank into the cushions, feeling his muscles and bones relax in relief. His trip to New York had been unexpected. The anarchical violence of the Western states had proved too much even for a hardened businessman like himself. He abhorred that he had to carry a gun in order to build a railroad. It smacked of barbarity, not of progress. So, whatever the news was in the telegram, it was important enough that it had been delivered to a place where he was not meant to be, a place where he only might be if someone were looking everywhere for him.
