Max Carrados. Bramah Ernest

as they call it. A good many late business gentlemen living at Swanstead use the seven-eleven regular. The other journeys we stop at every station to Lambeth Bridge, and then here and there beyond.”

      “There are, of course, other trains doing exactly the same journey—a service, in fact?”

      “Yes, sir. About six.”

      “And do any of those—say, during the rush—do any of those run non-stop from Lambeth to Swanstead?”

      Hutchins reflected a moment. All the choler and restlessness had melted out of the man’s face. He was again the excellent artisan, slow but capable and self-reliant.

      “That I couldn’t definitely say, sir. Very few short-distance trains pass the junction, but some of those may. A guide would show us in a minute but I haven’t got one.”

      “Never mind. You said at the inquest that it was no uncommon thing for you to be pulled up at the ‘stop’ signal east of Knight’s Cross Station. How often would that happen—only with the seven-eleven, mind.”

      “Perhaps three times a week; perhaps twice.”

      “The accident was on a Thursday. Have you noticed that you were pulled up oftener on a Thursday than on any other day?”

      A smile crossed the driver’s face at the question.

      “You don’t happen to live at Swanstead yourself, sir?” he asked in reply.

      “No,” admitted Carrados. “Why?”

      “Well, sir, we were always pulled up on Thursday; practically always, you may say. It got to be quite a saying among those who used the train regular; they used to look out for it.”

      Carrados’s sightless eyes had the one quality of concealing emotion supremely. “Oh,” he commented softly, “always; and it was quite a saying, was it? And why was it always so on Thursday?”

      “It had to do with the early closing, I’m told. The suburban traffic was a bit different. By rights we ought to have been set back two minutes for that day, but I suppose it wasn’t thought worth while to alter us in the time-table, so we most always had to wait outside Three Deep tunnel for a west-bound electric to make good.”

      “You were prepared for it then?”

      “Yes, sir, I was,” said Hutchins, reddening at some recollection, “and very down about it was one of the jury over that. But, mayhap once in three months, I did get through even on a Thursday, and it’s not for me to question whether things are right or wrong just because they are not what I may expect. The signals are my orders, sir—stop! go on! and it’s for me to obey, as you would a general on the field of battle. What would happen otherwise! It was nonsense what they said about going cautious; and the man who started it was a barber who didn’t know the difference between a ‘distance’ and a ‘stop’ signal down to the minute they gave their verdict. My orders, sir, given me by that signal, was ‘Go right ahead and keep to your running time!’ ”

      Carrados nodded a soothing assent. “That is all, I think,” he remarked.

      “All!” exclaimed Hutchins in surprise. “Why, sir, you can’t have got much idea of it yet.”

      “Quite enough. And I know it isn’t pleasant for you to be taken along the same ground over and over again.”

      The man moved awkwardly in his chair and pulled nervously at his grizzled beard.

      “You mustn’t take any notice of what I said just now, sir,” he apologized. “You somehow make me feel that something may come of it; but I’ve been badgered about and accused and cross-examined from one to another of them these weeks till it’s fairly made me bitter against everything. And now they talk of putting me in a lavatory—me that has been with the company for five and forty years and on the foot-plate thirty-two—a man suspected of running past a danger signal.”

      “You have had a rough time, Hutchins; you will have to exercise your patience a little longer yet,” said Carrados sympathetically.

      “You think something may come of it, sir? You think you will be able to clear me? Believe me, sir, if you could give me something to look forward to it might save me from——” He pulled himself up and shook his head sorrowfully. “I’ve been near it,” he added simply.

      Carrados reflected and took his resolution.

      “To-day is Wednesday. I think you may hope to hear something from your general manager towards the middle of next week.”

      “Good God, sir! You really mean that?”

      “In the interval show your good sense by behaving reasonably. Keep civilly to yourself and don’t talk. Above all”—he nodded towards a quart jug that stood on the table between them, an incident that filled the simple-minded engineer with boundless wonder when he recalled it afterwards—“above all, leave that alone.”

      Hutchins snatched up the vessel and brought it crashing down on the hearthstone, his face shining with a set resolution.

      “I’ve done with it, sir. It was the bitterness and despair that drove me to that. Now I can do without it.”

      The door was hastily opened and Miss Hutchins looked anxiously from her father to the visitors and back again.

      “Oh, whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed. “I heard a great crash.”