"Oh, well, then," said Mr. Pyeburt, "it isn't an attractive proposition to you, and, after all, you needn't take a knighthood--which, by the way, doesn't carry the title of lordship--unless you want to. "I've often thought," he said, screwing up his forehead, as though in the process of profound cogitation, "that one of these days some lucky fellow will take the Lynhaven Railway off Chenney's hands and earn his everlasting gratitude." "Lynhaven? Where's that?" asked Bones. "Is there a railway?" Mr. Pyeburt nodded. "Come out on to the balcony, and I'll tell you about it," said Pyeburt; and Bones, who always wanted telling about things, and could no more resist information than a dipsomaniac could refuse drink, followed obediently. It appeared that Mr. Parkinson Chenney's father was a rich but eccentric man, who had a grudge against a certain popular seaside resort for some obscure reason, and had initiated a movement to found a rival town. So he had started Lynhaven, and had built houses and villas and beautiful assembly rooms; and then, to complete the independence of Lynhaven, he had connected that town with the main traffic line by railway, which he built across eight miles of marshland. By all the rules of the game, no man can create successfully in a spirit of vengeance, and Lynhaven should have been a failure. It was, indeed, a great success, and repaid Mr. Chenney, Senior, handsomely. But the railway, it seemed, was a failure, because the rival town had certain foreshore rights, and had employed those to lay a tramway from their hustling centre; and as the rival town was on the main line, the majority of visitors preferred going by the foreshore route in preference to the roundabout branch line route, which was somewhat handicapped by the fact that this, too, connected with the branch line at Tolness, a little town which had done great work in the War, but which did not attract the tourist in days of peace. These were the facts about the Lynhaven line, not as they were set forth by Mr. Pyeburt--who took a much more optimistic view of the possibilities of the railway than did its detractors--but as they really were. "It's a fine line, beautifully laid and ballasted," said Mr. Pyeburt, shaking his head with melancholy admiration. "All that it wants behind it is a mind. At present it's neglected; the freights and passenger fares are too high, the rolling-stock wants replacing, but the locomotive stock is in most excellent condition." "Does he want to sell it?" asked the interested Bones, and Mr. Pyeburt pursed his lips. "It is extremely doubtful," he said carefully, "but I think he might be approached. If he does want to sell it, and you can take it off his hands----" He raised his own eyebrows with a significant gesture, which expressed in some subtle way that Bones's future was assured. Bones said he would think the matter over, and he did--aloud, in the presence of Hamilton.