Southward, with low funnel belching forth fire and smoke into the
blackness of the night, the huge engine, with its solitary saloon
carriage and guard’s brake, thundered its way through the night towards
the great metropolis. Across the desolate plain, stripped bare of all
vegetation, and made hideous forever by the growth of a mighty industry,
where the furnace fires reddened the sky, and only the unbroken line of
ceaseless lights showed where town dwindled into village and suburbs
led back again into town. An ugly, thickly populated neighborhood, whose
area of twinkling lights seemed to reach almost to the murky skies;
hideous, indeed by day, not altogether devoid now of a certain weird
attractiveness by reason of low-hung stars. On, through many tunnels
into the black country itself, where the furnace fires burned oftener,
but the signs of habitation were fewer. Down the great iron way the
huge locomotive rushed onward, leaping and bounding across the maze
of metals, tearing past the dazzling signal lights, through crowded
stations where its passing was like the roar of some earth-shaking
monster. The station-master at Crewe unhooked his telephone receiver and
rang up Liverpool.
“What about this special?” he demanded.
“Passenger brought off from the Lusitania in a private tug. Orders are
to let her through all the way to London.”
“I know all about that,” the station-master grumbled. “I have three
locals on my hands already,--been held up for half an hour. Old Glynn,
the director’s, in one of them too. Might be General Manager to hear him
swear.”
“Is she signalled yet?” Liverpool asked.
“Just gone through at sixty miles an hour,” was the reply. “She made our
old wooden sheds shake, I can tell you. Who’s driving her?”
“Jim Poynton,” Liverpool answered. “The guvnor took him off the mail
specially.”
“What’s the fellow’s name on board, anyhow?” Crewe asked. “Is it a
millionaire from the other side, trying to make records, or a member of
our bloated aristocracy?”
“The name’s Fynes, or something like it,” was the reply. “He didn’t look
much like a millionaire. Came into the office carrying a small handbag
and asked for a special to London. Guvnor told him it would take two
hours and cost a hundred and eighty pounds. Told him he’d better wait
for the mail. He produced a note from some one or other, and you
should have seen the old man bustle round. We started him off in twenty
minutes.”
The station-master at Crewe was interested. He knew very well that it
is not the easiest thing in the world to bring influence to bear upon a
great railway company.
“Seems as though he was some one out of the common, anyway,” he
remarked. “The guvnor didn’t let on who the note was from, I suppose?”
“Not he,” Liverpool answered. “The first thing he did when he came back
into the office was to tear it into small pieces and throw them on the
fire. Young Jenkins did ask him a question, and he shut him up pretty
quick.”
“Well, I suppose we shall read all about it in the papers tomorrow,”
Crewe remarked. “There isn’t much that these reporters don’t get hold
of. He must be some one out of the common--some one with a pull, I
mean,--or the captain of the Lusitania would never have let him off
before the other passengers. When are the rest of them coming through?”
“Three specials leave here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” was the
reply. “Good night.”
The station-master at Crewe hung up his receiver and went about his
duties. Twenty miles southward by now, the special was still tearing its
way into the darkness. Its solitary passenger had suddenly developed a
fit of restlessness. He left his seat and walked once or twice up and
down the saloon. Then he opened the rear door, crossed the little open
space between, and looked into the guard’s brake. The guard was sitting
upon a stool, reading a newspaper. He was quite alone, and so absorbed
that he did not notice the intruder. Mr. Hamilton Fynes quietly
retreated, closing the door behind him. He made his way once more
through the saloon, passed the attendant, who was fast asleep in his
pantry, and was met by a locked door. He let down the window and
looked out. He was within a few feet of the engine, which was obviously
attached direct to the saloon. Mr. Hamilton Fynes resumed his seat,
having disturbed nobody. He produced some papers from his breast pocket,
and spread them out on the table before him. One, a sealed envelope, he
immediately returned, slipping it down into a carefully prepared place
between the lining and the material of his coat. Of the others he
commenced to make a close and minute investigation. It was a curious
fact, however, that notwithstanding his recent searching examination, he
looked once more nervously around the saloon before he settled down to
his task. For some reason or other, there was not the slightest doubt
that for the present, at any rate, Mr. Hamilton Fynes was exceedingly
anxious to keep his own company. As he drew nearer to his journey’s end,
indeed, his manner seemed to lose something of that composure of which,
during the earlier part of the evening, he had certainly been possessed.
Scarcely a minute passed that he did not lean sideways from his seat and
look up and down the saloon. He sat like a man who is perpetually on
the qui vive. A furtive light shone in his eyes, he was manifestly
uncomfortable. Yet how could a man be safer from espionage than he!
Rugby telephoned to Liverpool, and received very much the same answer as
Crewe. Euston followed suit.
“Who’s this you’re sending up tonight?” the station-master asked.
“Special’s 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.