"He has," replied Carrados, with imperturbable good-humour; "he has sent me. Now, I want to ask you a few questions." "A few questions!" roared the irate man. "Why, blast it, I have done nothing else but answer questions for a month. I didn't pay Mr Carlyle to ask me questions; I can get enough of that for nixes. Why don't you go and ask Mr Herbert Ananias Mead your few questions--then you might find out something." There was a slight movement by the door and Carrados knew that the girl had quietly left the room. "You saw that, sir?" demanded the father, diverted to a new line of bitterness. "You saw that girl--my own daughter, that I've worked for all her life?" "No," replied Carrados. "The girl that's just gone out--she's my daughter," explained Hutchins. "I know, but I did not see her. I see nothing. I am blind." "Blind!" exclaimed the old fellow, sitting up in startled wonderment. "You mean it, sir? You walk all right and you look at me as if you saw me. You're kidding surely." "No," smiled Carrados. "It's quite right." "Then it's a funny business, sir--you what are blind expecting to find something that those with their eyes couldn't," ruminated Hutchins sagely. "There are things that you can't see with your eyes, Hutchins." "Perhaps you are right, sir. Well, what is it you want to know?" "Light a cigar first," said the blind man, holding out his case and waiting until the various sounds told him that his host was smoking contentedly. "The train you were driving at the time of the accident was the six-twenty-seven from Notcliff. It stopped everywhere until it reached Lambeth Bridge, the chief London station of your line. There it became something of an express, and leaving Lambeth Bridge at seven-eleven, should not stop again until it fetched Swanstead on Thames, eleven miles out, at seven-thirty-four. Then it stopped on and off from Swanstead to Ingerfield, the terminus of that branch, which it reached at eight-five." Hutchins nodded, and then, remembering, said: "That's right, sir." "That was your business all day--running between Notcliff and Ingerfield?" "Yes, sir. Three journeys up and three down mostly." "With the same stops on all the down journeys?" "No. The seven-eleven is the only one that does a run from the Bridge to Swanstead. You see, it is just on the close of the evening rush, as they call it. A good many late business gentlemen living at Swanstead use the seven-eleven regular. The other journeys we stop at every station to Lambeth Bridge, and then here and there beyond." "There are, of course, other trains doing exactly the same journey--a service, in fact?" "Yes, sir. About six." "And do any of those--say, during the rush--do any of those run non-stop from Lambeth to Swanstead?" Hutchins reflected a moment. All the choler and restlessness had melted out of the man's face. He was again the excellent artisan, slow but capable and self-reliant.