at Willington now, come through without a stop. Is some one trying to make a record round the world?”
Liverpool was a little tired of answering questions, and more than a little tired of this mysterious client. The station-master at Euston, however, was a person to be treated with respect.
“His name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, sir,” was the reply. “That is all we know about him. They have been ringing us up all down the line, ever since the special left.”
“Hamilton Fynes,” Euston repeated. “Don’t know the name. Where did he come from?”
“Off the Lusitania, sir.”
“But we had a message three hours ago that the Lusitania was not landing her passengers until tomorrow morning,” Euston protested.
“They let our man off in a tug, sir,” was the reply.
“It went down the river to fetch him. The guvnor didn’t want to give him a special at this time of night, but he just handed him a note, and we made things hum up here. He was on his way in half an hour. We have had to upset the whole of the night traffic to let him through without a stop.”
Such a client was, at any rate, worth meeting. The station-master brushed his coat, put on his silk hat, and stepped out on to the platform.
CHAPTER III. AN INCIDENT AND AN ACCIDENT
Smoothly the huge engine came gliding into the station—a dumb, silent creature now, drawing slowly to a standstill as though exhausted after its great effort. Through the windows of the saloon the station-master could see the train attendant bending over this mysterious passenger, who did not seem, as yet, to have made any preparations for leaving his place. Mr. Hamilton Fynes was seated at a table covered with papers, but he was leaning back as though he had been or was still asleep. The station-master stepped forward, and as he did so the attendant came hurrying out to the platform, and, pushing back the porters, called to him by name.
“Mr. Rice,” he said, “If you please, sir, will you come this way?”
The station-master acceded at once to the man’s request and entered the saloon. The attendant clutched at his arm nervously. He was a pale, anaemic-looking little person at any time, but his face just now was positively ghastly.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” the station-master asked brusquely.
“There’s something wrong with my passenger, sir,” the man declared in a shaking voice. “I can’t make him answer me. He won’t look up, and I don’t—I don’t think he’s asleep. An hour ago I took him some whiskey. He told me not to disturb him again—he had some papers to go through.”
The station-master leaned over the table. The eyes of the man who sat there were perfectly wide-open, but there was something unnatural in their fixed stare—something unnatural, too, in the drawn grayness of his face.
“This is Euston, sir,” the station-master began—“the terminus—”
Then he broke off in the middle of his sentence. A cold shiver was creeping through his veins. He, too, began to stare; he felt the color leaving his own cheeks. With an effort he turned to the attendant.
“Pull down the blinds,” he ordered, in a voice which he should never have recognized as his own. “Quick! Now turn out those porters, and tell the inspector to stop anyone from coming into the car.”
The attendant, who was shaking like a leaf, obeyed. The station-master turned away and drew a long breath. He himself was conscious of a sense of nausea, a giddiness which was almost overmastering. This was a terrible thing to face without a second’s warning. He had not the slightest doubt but that the man who was seated at the table was dead!
At such an hour there were only a few people upon the platform, and two stalwart station policemen easily kept back the loiterers whose curiosity had been excited by the arrival of the special. A third took up his position with his back to the entrance of the saloon, and allowed no one to enter it till the return of the station-master, who had gone for a doctor. The little crowd was completely mystified. No one had the slightest idea of what had happened. The attendant was besieged by questions, but he was sitting on the step of the car, in the shadow of a policeman, with his head buried in his hands, and he did not once look up. Some of the more adventurous tried to peer through the windows at the lower end of the saloon. Others rushed off to interview the guard. In a very few minutes, however, the station-master reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by the doctor. The little crowd stood on one side and the two men stepped into the car.
The doctor proceeded at once with his examination. Mr. Hamilton Fynes, this mysterious person who had succeeded, indeed, in making a record journey, was leaning back in the corner of his seat, his arms folded, his head drooping a little, but his eyes still fixed in that unseeing stare. His body yielded itself unnaturally to the touch. For the main truth the doctor needed scarcely a glance at him.
“Is he dead?” the station-master asked.
“Stone-dead!” was the brief answer.
“Good God!” the station-master muttered. “Good God!”
The doctor had thrown his handkerchief over the dead man’s face. He was standing now looking at him thoughtfully.
“Did he die in his sleep, I wonder?” the station-master asked. “It must have been horribly sudden! Was it heart disease?”
The doctor did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be thinking out some problem.
“The body had better be removed to the station mortuary,” he said at last. “Then, if I were you, I should have the saloon shunted on to a siding and left absolutely untouched. You had better place two of your station police in charge while you telephone to Scotland Yard.”
“To Scotland Yard?” the station-master exclaimed.
The doctor nodded. He looked around as though to be sure that none of that anxious crowd outside could overhear.
“There’s no question of heart disease here,” he explained. “The man has been murdered!”
The station-master was horrified—horrified and blankly incredulous.
“Murdered!” he repeated. “Why, it’s impossible! There was no one else on the train except the attendant—not a single other person. All my advices said one passenger only.”
The doctor touched the man’s coat with his finger, and the station-master saw what he had not seen before—saw what made him turn away, a little sick. He was a strong man, but he was not used to this sort of thing, and he had barely recovered yet from the first shock of finding himself face to face with a dead man. Outside, the crowd upon the platform was growing larger. White faces were being pressed against the windows at the lower end of the saloon.
“There is no question about the man having been murdered,” the doctor said, and even his voice shook a little. “His own hand could never have driven that knife home. I can tell you, even, how it was
