“Did she ask you to give her any information about things you are interested in?” “My dear fellow,” said Reggie Boltover, shaking his head, “if she did I have forgotten it. All I know is that she very seriously compromised me. I have not been to Sebo’s since.” “As you are such a perfectly hopeless person,” said Michael, “will you give me a note to your secretary or your factotum or whatever human substitute for mentality you possess, instructing him to give me a full list of your properties?” “With the greatest pleasure in life, with every happiness,” said Reggie earnestly, “with the greatest alacrity!” Armed with this, Michael called the next morning at the office of one who was frequently referred to by journalists as a “merchant prince,” and when he came out into Threadneedle Street his step was lighter and his eye was brighter than it had been for weeks. “Now, Kate,” he said between his teeth, “this is where you finish!” He could have had all the men he wanted but he preferred making his investigation without assistance. He went home and changed into a knickerbocker suit, took his oldest overcoat, a walking stick and a Browning pistol with two spare magazines. He did not ask for a special engine, but travelled to Pinham Heights station by ordinary train. He showed his authority to the station-master who, however, recognized him. “I don’t want anybody to know that I am down here,” he said, “and I must rely upon your discretion to see that my wishes in this respect are carried out. Am I likely to meet any plate-layers or people on the line between here and Tolbridge?” “You will meet nobody until you come to Tolbridge box, but be very careful,” warned the station-master, “the down express goes through the tunnel in ten minutes. I should advise you not to leave until that has passed.” This advice Michael thought it expedient to accept and not until the rocking train had shrieked through the station and the receding red lamps were disappearing in the darkness of the tunnel did he walk down the sloping platform into the six-foot way and pass into the smoking tunnel. He could have reached his destination by the high road which runs from Pinham round the foot of the Beacon, but for reasons of his own, he preferred to accept the discomforts of the darker way and the uneven going. He passed through the tunnel after a seemingly interminable walk and came to the switch line where his engine had been sidetracked. He followed this until he came to the buffer and the deep hole beyond. He examined the buffer very carefully, retraced his footsteps and examined the rail. It was, as he had seen before, red with rust. Nevertheless, he went on his knees and examined the rail through a magnifying glass. Then he wetted his finger and drew it along the red surface. He looked at his finger. It was red. But it was not the red of rust.