The Illustrious Prince | Page 6

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,