But why on earth did they want to open the gate? If the train had been rifled on this stretch of line the need for an open gate would have been easy to explain. The train would have been stopped here and, supposing they could force the locks of the safe, the thieves could have loaded their gold and got away--but no train had been found. Michael passed through the turnstile and examined the road for something to guide him to a solution. It had been raining throughout the night and more than one traction engine had passed, as was evident from the wheel marks. He explored the road for a hundred yards and found nothing. Then he tried the other gate and found that there the catch had also been forced. The first twenty yards of the road was soft and the wheel tracks were indistinguishable. At the end of this patch, however, the going was harder, the crown of the road had drained off the rain and even the traction engine had left no great impression. Michael walked a pace or two, then stopped and whistled, and well might he whistle, for there plain to be seen and not to be confused with any other track was the deep and narrow furrow and the broad impression which could have only been made by railway wheels! He followed the track for another hundred yards where it struck the main road and a tram line and from there every trace disappeared. Very weary and dishevelled he presented himself to T.B. Smith and made his report. “You don’t seriously suggest that they took a railway train off the line and put it on the road, do you?” asked T.B. in wonder. “It’s impossible!” “Of course it’s impossible,” said Michael irritably; “the whole thing is impossible. You can’t steal a railway train--but they’ve done it!” He found with the assistant commissioner Sir Ralph whose agitation was pathetic. “It’s pretty rough on me, old man,” said the baronet with that friendliness which the superior person invariably adopts in a moment of his misfortune. “I have lost a wife and a railway train in twenty-four hours. What the dickens are you laughing at?” “Nothing,” said Michael recovering his gravity. “It was almost worth everything to see your face!” CHAPTER XIV. THE REMARKABLE TRAIN THAT DID STRANGE TRICKS By six o’clock that evening Michael Pretherston was back again at his work, passing down from station to station on a pilot engine, questioning and cross-examining the officials concerned. T.B. Smith picked him up at Maidmore going down by the ordinary train. “Have you found anything?” “I have a theory,” said Michael. “I’d like you to listen to what the station-master here has to say.” “Have you questioned him?” “Not yet,” said Michael, “but I have an idea he will say exactly what the man at Stanborn said.”