"For that matter, if there is anything you want to know, I dare say that I can tell you,” suggested his visitor. “It might save your time."
"True,” acquiesced Carrados. “I should like to know whether anyone belonging to the houses that bound the line there came of age or got married on the twenty-sixth of November."
Mr. Carlyle looked across curiously at his host.
"I really do not know, Max,” he replied, in his crisp, precise way. “What on earth has that got to do with it, may I inquire?"
"The only explanation of the Pont St. Lin swing-bridge disaster of ‘75 was the reflection of a green bengal light on a cottage window."
Mr. Carlyle smiled his indulgence privately.
"My dear chap, you mustn't let your retentive memory of obscure happenings run away with you,” he remarked wisely. “In nine cases out of ten the obvious explanation is the true one. The difficulty, as here, lies in proving it. Now, you would like to see these men?"
"I expect so; in any case, I will see Hutchins first."
"Both live in Holloway. Shall I ask Hutchins to come here to see you—say tomorrow? He is doing nothing."
"No,” replied Carrados. “Tomorrow I must call on my brokers and my time may be filled up."
"Quite right; you mustn't neglect your own affairs for this—experiment,” assented Carlyle.
"Besides, I should prefer to drop in on Hutchins at his own home. Now, Louis, enough of the honest old man for one night. I have a lovely thing by Eumenes that I want to show you. Today is—Tuesday. Come to dinner on Sunday and pour the vials of your ridicule on my want of success."
"That's an amiable way of putting it,” replied Carlyle. “All right, I will."
Two hours later Carrados was again in his study, apparently, for a wonder, sitting idle. Sometimes he smiled to himself, and once or twice he laughed a little, but for the most part his pleasant, impassive face reflected no emotion and he sat with his useless eyes tranquilly fixed on an unseen distance. It was a fantastic caprice of the man to mock his sightlessness by a parade of light, and under the soft brilliance of a dozen electric brackets the room was as bright as day. At length he stood up and rang the bell.
"I suppose Mr. Greatorex isn't still here by any chance, Parkinson?” he asked, referring to his secretary.
"I think not, sir, but I will ascertain,” replied the man.
"Never mind. Go to his room and bring me the last two files of The Times. Now"—when he returned—"turn to the earliest you have there. The date?"
"November the second."
"That will do. Find the Money Market; it will be in the Supplement. Now look down the columns until you come to British Railways."
"I have it, sir."
"Central and Suburban. Read the closing price and the change."
"Central and Suburban Ordinary, 66 1/2-67 1/2, fall 1/8. Preferred Ordinary, 81-81 1/2, no change. Deferred Ordinary, 27 1/2-27 3/4, fall 1/4. That is all, sir."
"Now take a paper about a week on. Read the Deferred only."
"27-27 1/4, no change."
"Another week."
"29 1/2-30, rise 5/8."
"Another."
"31 1/2-32 1/2, rise 1."
"Very good. Now on Tuesday the twenty-seventh November."
"31 7/8-32 3/4, rise 1/2."
"Yes. The next day."
"24 1/2-23 1/2, fall 9."
"Quite so, Parkinson. There had been an accident, you see."
"Yes, sir. Very unpleasant accident. Jane knows a person whose sister's young man has a cousin who had his arm torn off in it—torn off at the socket, she says, sir. It seems to bring it home to one, sir."
"That is all. Stay—in the paper you have, look down the first money column and see if there is any reference to the Central and Suburban."
"Yes, sir. ‘City and Suburbans, which after their late depression on the projected extension of the motor bus service, had been steadily creeping up on the abandonment of the scheme, and as a result of their own excellent traffic returns, suffered a heavy slump through the lamentable accident of Thursday night. The Deferred in particular at one time fell eleven points as it was felt that the possible dividend, with which rumour has of late been busy, was now out of the question.’”
"Yes; that is all. Now you can take the papers back. And let it be a warning to you, Parkinson, not to invest your savings in speculative railway deferreds."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, I will endeavour to remember.” He lingered for a moment as he shook the file of papers level. “I may say, sir, that I have my eye on a small block of cottage property at Acton. But even cottage property scarcely seems safe from legislative depredation now, sir."
The next day Mr. Carrados called on his brokers in the city. It is to be presumed that he got through his private business quicker than he expected, for after leaving Austin Friars he continued his journey to Holloway, where he found Hutchins at home and sitting morosely before his kitchen fire. Rightly assuming that his luxuriant car would involve him in a certain amount of public attention in Klondyke Street, the blind man dismissed it some distance from the house, and walked the rest of the way, guided by the almost imperceptible touch of Parkinson's arm.
"Here is a gentleman to see you, father,” explained Miss Hutchins, who had come to the door. She divined the relative positions of the two visitors at a glance.
"Then why don't you take him into the parlour?” grumbled the ex-driver. His face was a testimonial of hard work and general sobriety but at the moment one might hazard from his voice and manner that he had been drinking earlier in the day.
"I don't think that the gentleman would be impressed by the difference between our parlour and our kitchen,” replied the girl quaintly, “and it is warmer here."
"What's the matter with the parlour now?” demanded her father sourly. “It was good enough for your mother and me. It used to be good enough for you."
"There is nothing the matter with it, nor with the kitchen either.” She turned impassively to the two who had followed her along the narrow passage. “Will you go in, sir?"
"I don't want to see no gentleman,” cried Hutchins noisily. “Unless"—his manner suddenly changed to one of pitiable anxiety—"unless you're from the Company sir, to—to—"
"No; I have come on Mr. Carlyle's behalf,” replied Carrados, walking to a chair as though he moved by a kind of instinct."
Hutchins laughed his wry contempt.
"Mr. Carlyle!” he reiterated; “Mr. Carlyle! Fat lot of good he's been. Why don't he do something for his money?"
"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 on 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.
"That I couldn't definitely say, sir. Very few short-distance trains pass the junction, but some of those may. A guide would show us in a minute but I haven't got one."
"Never mind. You said at the inquest that it was no uncommon thing for you to be pulled up at the ‘stop’ signal east of Knight's Cross Station. How often would that happen—only with the seven-eleven, mind."
"Perhaps three times a week; perhaps twice."
"The accident was on a Thursday. Have you noticed that you were pulled up oftener on a Thursday than on any other day?"
A smile crossed the driver's face at the question.
"You don't happen to live at Swanstead yourself, sir?” he asked in reply.
"No,” admitted Carrados. “Why?"
"Well, sir, we were always pulled up on Thursday; practically always, you may say. It got to be quite a saying among those who used the train regular; they used to look out for it."
Carrados's sightless eyes had the one quality of concealing emotion supremely. “Oh,” he commented softly, “always; and it was quite a saying, was it? And why was it always so on Thursday?"
"It had to do with the early closing, I'm told. The suburban traffic was a bit different. By rights we ought to have been set back two minutes for that day, but I suppose it wasn't thought worthwhile to alter us in the time-table so we most always had to wait outside Three Deep tunnel for a west-bound electric to make good."
"You were prepared for it then?"
"Yes, sir, I was,” said Hutchins, reddening at some recollection, “and very down about it was one of the jury over that. But, mayhap once in three months, I did get through even on a Thursday, and it's not for me to question whether things are right or wrong just because they are not what I may expect. The signals are my orders, sir—stop! go on! and it's for me to obey, as you would a general on the field of battle. What would happen otherwise! It was nonsense what they said about going cautious; and the man who stated it was a barber who didn't know the difference between a ‘distance’ and a ‘stop’ signal down to the minute they gave their verdict. My orders, sir, given me by that signal, was ‘Go right ahead and keep to your running time!’”
Carrados nodded a soothing assent. “That is all, I think,” he remarked.
"All!” exclaimed Hutchins in surprise. “Why, sir, you can't have got much idea of it yet."
"Quite enough. And I know it isn't pleasant for you to be taken along the same ground over and over again."
The man moved awkwardly in his chair and pulled nervously at his grizzled beard.
"You mustn't take any notice of what I said just now, sir,” he apologized. “You somehow make me feel that something may come of it; but I've been badgered about and accused and cross-examined from one to another of them these weeks till it's fairly made me bitter against everything. And now they talk of putting me in a lavatory—me that has been with the company for five and forty years and on the foot-plate thirty-two—a man suspected of running past a danger signal."
"You have had a rough time, Hutchins; you will have to exercise your patience a little longer yet,” said Carrados sympathetically.
"You think something may come of it, sir? You think you will be able to clear me? Believe me, sir, if you could give me something to look forward to it might save me from—” He pulled himself up and shook his head sorrowfully. “I've been near it,” he added simply.
Carrados reflected and took his resolution.
"Today is Wednesday. I think you may hope to hear something from your general manager towards the middle of next week."
"Good God, sir! You really mean that?"
"In the interval show your good sense by behaving reasonably. Keep civilly to yourself and don't talk. Above all"—he nodded towards a quart jug that stood on the table between them, an incident that filled the simple-minded engineer with boundless wonder when he recalled it afterwards—"above all, leave that alone."
Hutchins snatched up the vessel and brought it crashing down on the hearthstone, his face shining with a set resolution.
"I've done with it, sir. It was the bitterness and despair that drove me to that. Now I can do without it."
The door was hastily opened and Miss Hutchins looked anxiously from her father to the visitors and back again.
"Oh, whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed. “I heard a great crash."
"This gentleman is going to clear me, Meg, my dear,” blurted out the old man irrepressibly. “And I've done with the drink forever."
"Hutchins! Hutchins!” said Carrados warningly.
"My daughter, sir; you wouldn't have her not know?” pleaded Hutchins, rather crest-fallen. “It won't go any further."
Carrados laughed quietly to himself as he felt Margaret Hutchins's startled and questioning eyes attempting to read his mind. He shook hands with the engine-driver without further comment, however, and walked out into the commonplace little street under Parkinson's unobtrusive guidance.
"Very nice of Miss Hutchins to go into half-mourning, Parkinson,” he remarked as they went along. “Thoughtful, and yet not ostentatious."
"Yes, sir,” agreed Parkinson, who had long ceased to wonder at his master's perceptions.
"The Romans, Parkinson, had a saying to the effect that gold carries no smell. That is a pity sometimes. What jewellery did Miss Hutchins wear?"
"Very little, sir. A plain gold brooch representing a merry-thought—the merry-thought of a sparrow, I should say, sir. The only other article was a smooth-backed gun-metal watch, suspended from a gun-metal bow."
"Nothing showy or expensive, eh?"
"Oh dear no, sir. Quite appropriate for a young person of her position."
"Just what I should have expected.” He slackened his pace. “We are passing a hoarding, are we not?"
"Yes, sir."
"We will stand here a moment. Read me the letterpress of the poster before us."
"This ‘Oxo’ one, sir?"
"Yes."
"'Oxo,’ sir."
Carrados was convulsed with silent laughter. Parkinson had infinitely more dignity and conceded merely a tolerant recognition of the ludicrous.
"That was a bad shot, Parkinson,” remarked his master when he could speak. “We will try another."
For three minutes, with scrupulous conscientiousness on the part of the reader and every appearance of keen interest on the part of the hearer, there were set forth the p
articulars of a sale by auction of superfluous timber and builders’ material.
"That will do,” said Carrados, when the last detail had been reached. “We can be seen from the door of No. 107 still?"
"Yes, sir."
"No indication of anyone coming to us from there?"
"No, sir."
Carrados walked thoughtfully on again. In the Holloway Road they rejoined the waiting motor-car.
"Lambeth Bridge Station” was the order the driver received.
From the station the car was sent on home and Parkinson was instructed to take two first-class singles for Richmond, which could be reached by changing at Stafford Road. The “evening rush” had not yet commenced and they had no difficulty in finding an empty carriage when the train came in.
Parkinson was kept busy that journey describing what he saw at various points between Lambeth Bridge and Knight's Cross. For a quarter of a mile Carrados's demands on the eyes and the memory of his remarkable servant were wide and incessant. Then his questions ceased. They had passed the “stop” signal, east of Knight's Cross Station.
The following afternoon they made the return journey as far as Knight's Cross. This time, however, the surroundings failed to interest Carrados. “We are going to look at some rooms,” was the information he offered on the subject, and an imperturbable “Yes, sir” had been the extent of Parkinson's comment on the unusual proceeding. After leaving the station they turned sharply along a road that ran parallel with the line, a dull thoroughfare of substantial, elderly houses that were beginning to sink into decrepitude. Here and there a corner residence displayed the brass plate of a professional occupant, but for the most part they were given up to the various branches of second-rate apartment letting.
"The third house after the one with the flagstaff,” said Carrados.
Parkinson rang the bell, which was answered by a young servant, who took an early opportunity of assuring them that she was not tidy as it was rather early in the afternoon. She informed Carrados, in reply to his inquiry, that Miss Chubb was at home, and showed them into a melancholy little sitting-room to await her appearance.
"I shall be ‘almost’ blind here, Parkinson,” remarked Carrados, walking about the room. “It saves explanation."
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