The Illustrious Prince | Page 5

fetch you from
the refreshment room when we are ready?"
"If you please," the intending passenger answered.
Mr. Hamilton Fynes discovered that place of entertainment without
difficulty, ordered for himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and drew
a chair close up to the small open fire, taking care, however, to sit
almost facing the only entrance to the room. He laid his hat upon the
counter, close to which he had taken up his position, and smoothed
back with his left hand his somewhat thick black hair. He was a man,
apparently of middle age, of middle height, clean-shaven, with good
but undistinguished features, dark eyes, very clear and very bright,
which showed, indeed, but little need of the pince-nez which hung by a
thin black cord from his neck. His hat, low in the crown and of soft
gray felt, would alone have betrayed his nationality. His clothes,

however, were also American in cut. His boots were narrow and of
unmistakable shape. He ate his sandwich with suspicion, and after his
first sip of coffee ordered a whiskey and soda. Afterwards he sat
leaning back in his chair, glancing every now and then at the clock, but
otherwise manifesting no signs of impatience. In less than half an hour
an inspector, cap in hand, entered the room and announced that
everything was ready. Mr. Hamilton Fynes put on his hat, picked up his
suitcase, and followed him on to the platform. A long saloon carriage,
with a guard's brake behind and an engine in front, was waiting there.
"We've done our best, sir," the station-master remarked with a note of
self-congratulation in his tone. "It's exactly twenty-two minutes since
you came into the office, and there she is. Finest engine we've got on
the line, and the best driver. You've a clear road ahead too. Wish you a
pleasant journey, sir."
"You are very good, sir," Mr. Hamilton Fynes declared. "I am sure that
my friends on the other side will appreciate your attention. By what
time do you suppose that we shall reach London?"
The station-master glanced at the clock.
"It is now eight o'clock, sir," he announced. "If my orders down the line
are properly attended to, you should be there by twenty minutes to
twelve."
Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded gravely and took his seat in the car. He
had previously walked its entire length and back again.
"The train consists only of this carriage?" he asked. "There is no other
passenger, for instance, travelling in the guard's brake?"
"Certainly not, sir," the station-master declared. "Such a thing would be
entirely against the regulations. There are five of you, all told, on
board,--driver, stoker, guard, saloon attendant, and yourself."
Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded, and appeared satisfied.

"No more luggage, sir? the guard asked.
"I was obliged to leave what I had, excepting this suitcase, upon the
steamer," Mr. Hamilton Fynes explained. "I could not very well expect
them to get my trunk up from the hold. It will follow me to the hotel
tomorrow."
"You will find that the attendant has light refreshments on board, sir, if
you should be wanting anything," the station-master announced. "We'll
start you off now, then. Good-night, sir!"
Mr. Fynes nodded genially.
"Good-night, Station-master!" he said. "Many thanks to you."
CHAPTER II.
THE END OF THE JOURNEY
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