At first his numbed brain refused to grasp the situation, but, as his faculties recovered their normal condition, the recollection of all that had transpired swept upon him. Inwardly cursing himself for his folly, he moved to the window and gazed out. But the landscape, over which night was fast settling, presented no familiar features. He pulled out his watch, and by the lateness of the hour, he knew that he must be far from his destination. Suddenly the reflection in the window of his hat and its pasteboard ornament caught his eye. He pulled out the ticket. It was for Carnmoor, a place he had never before heard of. “They meant to get me far enough out of the way,” he growled savagely. “If it hadn’t been for this the officials would have turned me out at the first place they took tickets,” and he crumpled the offending card in his hand. The slowing down of the train caused him to glance once more through the glass. Soon they swept into a station. The glimmering gas-jets, shining feebly through the gathering dusk, revealed the name of the place. The conspirators had timed his recovery to a nicety. It was Carnmoor! Hardly waiting for the motion of the carriages to cease, Haverly leapt out, and made straight for the telegraph office. If he could not warn his friends in person, he could wire them. Rushing into the office, the American startled the sleepy operator by bawling for a form. “Tick that off,” he cried, after he had scribbled a message, “and lively,” and over the wires there flashed this warning: _“Danger! For God’s sake, beware. Plan to capture the submarine to-night. Will explain when I come.--Haverly.”_ Somewhat easier in his mind, the millionaire strolled forth to inquire about the next train to Stanwich. “There ain’t none,” was the brusque reply of the porter he questioned, who appeared to be the only specimen of that genus upon the station. “Then I guess I must have a special,” returned Haverly. “Where’s your boss?” “Here he comes,” was the response, as the station-master approached. “This gent wants a special, Mister Burnside.” “Special, eh?” remarked the official; “it’ll cost you sixty pound.” “If it cost six hundred I should have to have one,” returned the millionaire. “I haven’t the dollars with me, but I can give you a cheque.” “Cheque!” exclaimed the station-master scornfully. “I ain’t taking no risks. How do I know as the bank would honour it? Nice sight I’d look with a cheque as wasn’t worth the paper it’s wrote on, and the comp’ny coming down on me for sixty quid. What say, William?” The porter agreed heartily with this verdict of his chief. “Say,” put in Haverly, somewhat irritably, “here’s my card. I reckon you’ve heard of me even in these God-forsaken parts. I’m Silas K. Haverly, the millionaire.” The station-master took the proffered card, but without troubling to read it, he placed a finger beside his nose and gently closed one eye, which piece of dumb show greatly pleased the worthy William.