The Illustrious Prince | Page 9

the
name of Mr. Hamilton Fynes. In his trousers pocket was a handful of
gold. He had no other personal belongings of any sort. The space
between the lining of his coat and the material itself was duly noticed,
but it was empty. His watch was a cheap one, his linen unmarked, and
his clothes bore only the name of a great New York retail establishment.
He had certainly entered the train alone, and both the guard and
attendant were ready to declare positively that no person could have
been concealed in it. The engine-driver, on his part, was equally ready
to swear that not once from the moment when they had steamed out of
Liverpool Station until they had arrived within twenty miles of London,
had they travelled at less than forty miles an hour. At Willington he had
found a signal against him which had brought him nearly to a standstill,
and under the regulations he had passed through the station at ten miles
an hour. These were the only occasions, however, on which he had
slackened speed at all. The train attendant, who was a nervous man,
began to shiver again and imagine unmentionable things. The guard,
who had never left his own brake, went home and dreamed that his

effigy had been added to the collection of Madame Tussaud. The
reporters were the only people who were really happy, with the
exception, perhaps of Inspector Jacks, who had a weakness for a
difficult case.
Fifteen miles north of London, a man lay by the roadside in the shadow
of a plantation of pine trees, through which he had staggered only a few
minutes ago. His clothes were covered with dust, he had lost his cap,
and his trousers were cut about the knee as though from a fall. He was
of somewhat less than medium height, dark, slender, with delicate
features, and hair almost coal black. His face, as he moved slowly from
side to side upon the grass, was livid with pain. Every now and then he
raised himself and listened. The long belt of main road, which passed
within a few feet of him, seemed almost deserted. Once a cart came
lumbering by, and the man who lay there, watching, drew closely back
into the shadows. A youth on a bicycle passed, singing to himself. A
boy and girl strolled by, arm in arm, happy, apparently, in their
profound silence. Only a couple of fields away shone the red and green
lights of the railway track. Every few minutes the goods-trains went
rumbling over the metals. The man on the ground heard them with a
shiver. Resolutely he kept his face turned in the opposite direction. The
night mail went thundering northward, and he clutched even at the
nettles which grew amongst the grass where he was crouching, as
though filled with a sudden terror. Then there was silence once
more--silence which became deeper as the hour approached midnight.
Passers-by were fewer; the birds and animals came out from their
hiding places. A rabbit scurried across the road; a rat darted down the
tiny stream. Now and then birds moved in the undergrowth, and the
man, who was struggling all the time with a deadly faintness, felt the
silence grow more and more oppressive. He began even to wonder
where he was. He closed his eyes. Was that really the tinkling of a
guitar, the perfume of almond and cherry blossom, floating to him
down the warm wind? He began to lose himself in dreams until he
realized that actual unconsciousness was close upon him. Then he set
his teeth tight and clenched his hands. Away in the distance a faint,
long-expected sound came travelling to his ears. At last, then, his long
wait was over. Two fiery eyes were stealing along the lonely road. The

throb of an engine was plainly audible. He staggered up, swaying a
little on his feet, and holding out his hands. The motor car came to a
standstill before him, and the man who was driving it sprang to the
ground. Words passed between them rapidly,--questions and
answers,--the questions of an affectionate servant, and the answers of a
man fighting a grim battle for consciousness. But these two spoke in a
language of their own, a language which no one who passed along that
road was likely to understand.
With a groan of relief the man who had been picked up sank back
amongst the cushioned seats, carefully almost tenderly, aided by the
chauffeur. Eagerly he thrust his hand into one of the leather pockets and
drew out a flask of brandy. The rush of cold air, as the car swung round
and started off, was like new life to him. He closed his eyes. When he
opened them again,