“Who’s this you’re sending up tonight?” the station-master asked. “Special’s at Willington now, come through without a stop. Is some one trying to make a record round the world?” Liverpool was a little tired of answering questions, and more than a little tired of this mysterious client. The station-master at Euston, however, was a person to be treated with respect. “His name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, sir,” was the reply. “That is all we know about him. They have been ringing us up all down the line, ever since the special left.” “Hamilton Fynes,” Euston repeated. “Don’t know the name. Where did he come from?” “Off the Lusitania, sir.” “But we had a message three hours ago that the Lusitania was not landing her passengers until tomorrow morning,” Euston protested. “They let our man off in a tug, sir,” was the reply. “It went down the river to fetch him. The guvnor didn’t want to give him a special at this time of night, but he just handed him a note, and we made things hum up here. He was on his way in half an hour. We have had to upset the whole of the night traffic to let him through without a stop.” Such a client was, at any rate, worth meeting. The station-master brushed his coat, put on his silk hat, and stepped out on to the platform. CHAPTER III. AN INCIDENT AND AN ACCIDENT Smoothly the huge engine came gliding into the station--a dumb, silent creature now, drawing slowly to a standstill as though exhausted after its great effort. Through the windows of the saloon the station-master could see the train attendant bending over this mysterious passenger, who did not seem, as yet, to have made any preparations for leaving his place. Mr. Hamilton Fynes was seated at a table covered with papers, but he was leaning back as though he had been or was still asleep. The station-master stepped forward, and as he did so the attendant came hurrying out to the platform, and, pushing back the porters, called to him by name. “Mr. Rice,” he said, “If you please, sir, will you come this way?” The station-master acceded at once to the man’s request and entered the saloon. The attendant clutched at his arm nervously. He was a pale, anaemic-looking little person at any time, but his face just now was positively ghastly. “What on earth is the matter with you?” the station-master asked brusquely. “There’s something wrong with my passenger, sir,” the man declared in a shaking voice. “I can’t make him answer me. He won’t look up, and I don’t--I don’t think he’s asleep. An hour ago I took him some whiskey. He told me not to disturb him again--he had some papers to go through.” The station-master leaned over the table. The eyes of the man who sat there were perfectly wide-open, but there was something unnatural in their fixed stare,--something unnatural, too, in the drawn grayness of his face. “This is Euston, sir,” the station-master began,--“the terminus--”