“Have you found anything?”
“I have a theory,” said Michael. “I’d like you to listen to what the stationmaster here has to say.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“Not yet,” said Michael, “but I have an idea he will say exactly what the man at Stanborn said.”
The inspector who had been on night duty at the time the train passed proved to be a very intelligent and observant man. He told the same story, that the rain was falling very heavily and that he had seen the distant lights of the gold special which had flown through the dark station at incredible pace.
“Is it not a fact,” said Michael, “that it passed you before you realized it was gone?”
The man was surprised.
“That is so, sir. It seemed as though I had hardly seen the headlights come into the station before I saw the taillights going out.”
“Did it whistle as it passed through?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “a deafening whistle. I remarked to my porter at the time that it must be trying a new kind of siren. It made the most fiendish row and you could hear nothing else.”
“It whistled through all the stations where there was somebody on duty,” said Michael turning to T. B. Smith. “It is a curious fact that at Stanborn Halt and Merchley which are closed for the night they made no noise at all. Was the station in darkness?” he said, turning to the inspector.
“Practically so, sir,” said the man; “there was one light on the down platform where I was standing, but it was a very dark night and it was impossible to distinguish anything on the other platform. All that we saw was the flash of lights and the train had passed before one had realized that it had gone.”
The inspector at Pinham Heights station had a similar story to tell.
But the Tolbridge junction signalman and the Tolbridge assistant stationmaster did not report any whistle or any unusual happening.
T. B. and Michael spent the night at Tolbridge and resumed their journey at daybreak. It was a slow and laborious business. Once between Pinham and Beckham Beacon, Michael had stopped the train and switched it on to a sidetrack.
“Why is there a sidetrack here?” he asked.
The railway official who accompanied him and who by this time was very weary of the whole business, explained vaguely that it was partly to provide a very necessary relief for any congestion on this section, and partly to connect up a “chalk pit or something” which now, however, was no longer used.
Michael walked along the rusted rails for a quarter of a mile. They led toward a low line of hills about three miles away. Rank vegetation grew between the sleepers, for it had been many years since its private owners had taken the trouble to put this little branch line in working order.
The road ended abruptly with a big buffer made of sleepers and behind this the rail drooped limply over a great hole as though there had been a subsidence of the earth.
Michael turned back and joined T. B.
“It could not have passed over here. The rail is rusty and runs into a large-sized hole at the other end,” said Michael in despair. “Well, go on, driver.”
It was a day of enquiries which led nowhere and Michael returned that night to town, weary and sick at heart. Nevertheless, he had the dim beginnings of a theory which, however, he refused to communicate to his chief.
“It is rather fantastic,” he excused himself, “but then, the whole thing is fantastic. It is obviously impossible to steal a railway train and carry it through the streets of London without somebody being attracted by the novelty of the spectacle.”
“Will you see Sir Ralph?” asked T. B. “He has been waiting here for an hour to meet you.”
“Hasn’t he got a home?” asked Michael irritably.
He saw the distracted baronet but could offer him little hope.
“It is impossible they can get away with it,” said Sir Ralph; “my expert tells me that it will take them two days to break through the steel walls whatever they use.”
A thought struck Michael.
“Have you a large scale map of your southern railway system?” he asked.
“I will have it sent round to you tonight,” said the baronet. “What chance do you think there is?” he asked anxiously.
“I think a very poor chance,” said Michael frankly; “you see, Kate doesn’t take any risk.”
“Kate?” said the baronet.
“You call her the ‘Princess Bacheffski.’ Flanborough calls her ‘Miss Tenby.’ As ‘Miss Tenby’ she secured Flanborough’s code and through some of her agents in the telegraph office learned about the shipment. As ‘Princess Bacheffski’ she wheedled the whole of your wonderful scheme for bringing gold from Seahampton and probably discovered the nature of the steel you use.”
“Good heavens!”
Sir Ralph sank into a chair and turned pale.
“You don’t mean to tell me—?”
“That is what I mean to tell you. Didn’t you realize that the whole thing was a put up job? Why should the car of the Princess break down at your front door?”
“But she was so beautifully dressed.”
“Why shouldn’t she be beautifully dressed?” asked Michael mercilessly; “she probably carried twenty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds. Wasn’t it worth it? Didn’t you give her information which she could not have bought for the money?”
“Then you mean to say that she is a common swindler?”
“She is a very uncommon swindler,” said Michael. “There’s only one thing that puzzles me,” he said, half to himself; “what did she want of Reggie?”
Mr. Reginald Boltover was interrupted in the delicate business of dressing for dinner by a peremptory demand that an officer of Scotland Yard should be admitted. He was relieved to discover that it was nothing more formidable than Michael.
“I have come to ask you about your friend Vera.”
Mr. Boltover winced.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “don’t mention that
