however, he had been one of the many victims. At the meeting he had just left, the chairman had informed the assembled throng that no dividends at all would be payable to shareholders for the foreseeable future. It was infuriating.
When he reached the Reform Club, the first thing he did was to order a stiff whisky. Reclining in his high- backed leather chair, he sipped it gratefully and bestowed a patrician smile on all who passed. In the sedate surroundings of the club, he could not let his seething rage show. He had to simmer inwardly. One of the uniformed stewards came across to him and inclined his head with deference.
'There's a gentleman asking for you, Sir Marcus,' he said.
'Did he give a name?'
'He sent his card.'
The steward handed it over and the old man glanced at it.
'Send him in, Jellings,' he said, crisply, 'and bring him a glass of whisky. Put it on my account, there's a good chap.'
Minutes later, Sir Marcus was sitting beside Luke Rogan, a thickset man in his forties with long, wavy black hair tinged with grey and a flat, but not unpleasant, face. Though well-dressed, Rogan looked decidedly out of place in a palatial club that was a home for Whig politicians and their like. There was a flashy quality about the newcomer that made him look rather incongruous beside such a distinguished figure as Sir Marcus Hetherington. When set against the educated drawl of the grandee, his voice sounded rough and plebeian.
'You've more work for me, Sir Marcus?' he inquired.
'I think so, Rogan.'
'Tell me what it is. I've never let you down yet.'
'I wouldn't employ you if you had,' said Sir Marcus, 'and you would certainly not be sitting here now. Tell me, do you read the newspapers on a regular basis?'
'Of course,' replied the other with a complacent grin. 'In my line of business, I have to, Sir Marcus. Newspapers is how I gets most of my work. Well, it's how you and me got together, ain't it? You saw my advertisement and got in touch.'
'What have you noticed in the course of your reading?'
'That the police still have no idea how a certain person was thrown out of a moving railway carriage – and they never will.'
'Their failure is gratifying,' said Sir Marcus, 'I grant you that. But we must never underestimate this fellow, Colbeck. He seems to have an uncanny knack of picking up a trail where none exists.'
'Not this time. Inspector Colbeck is like the rest of them over at Scotland Yard – he's floundering, Sir Marcus.'
'I begin to wonder.'
'What do you mean?'
'I've just come from a shareholders' meeting of a railway company,' replied the other. 'The one thing of interest that the chairman told me was that Colbeck helped to prevent a serious crime from taking place on one of their trains earlier this year. The chairman could not speak too highly of him.'
'Colbeck had some luck, that's all.'
'His success can't be dismissed as lightly as that, Rogan. When I pointed out that the Railway Detective was faltering badly with his latest case, the chairman said that he'd heard a rumour to the effect that the inspector had gone to France.'
Rogan was jolted. 'To France?'
'It was not the kind of information I wanted to hear.'
'Nor me, Sir Marcus.'
'What I want to read about is the damage done to a particular railway line on the other side of the Channel, yet the newspapers have been uniformly silent on the subject.'
'You can't expect them to carry foreign items.'
'That's exactly what I do expect, man. Any periodical worthy of the name should have its own foreign correspondents. The Times will always report matters of interest from abroad.'
'This would hardly catch their attention, Sir Marcus.'
'Yes, it would. An Englishman is involved – Thomas Brassey.'
'I'm sure that everything is going to plan.'
'Then why is there no whisper of it in the press? Why is there no report from France about the damage caused to a railway in which they have invested both money and national pride?'
'I can't tell you,' admitted Rogan.
'Then find out.'
'Eh?'
'Go to France, man. Discover the truth.'
'But I'm handling other cases at the moment, Sir Marcus. I can't just drop them to go sailing off across the Channel. Anyway, I've no reason to suspect that the men I engaged will let me down.'
'How much did you pay them?'
'Half the money in advance,' said Rogan, 'just like you told me, the rest to be handed over when the job was done.'
'And has the job been done?' pressed Sir Marcus.
'Not yet.'
'Not at all, I suspect. What was to stop these rogues from pocketing the money you gave them and taking to their heels? If that's the case, Rogan – and I hope, for your sake, that it's not – then I am out of pocket as a consequence of your bad judgement of character.'
'Sir Marcus-'
'Don't interrupt me,' snapped the other, subduing him with a frosty glare. 'There's unfinished business here, sir. If you accept a commission, you should see it through as a matter of honour. What you did for me in this country, I applaud. You obeyed your orders to the letter and were handsomely rewarded. But I begin to fear that you have let me down woefully in France itself.'
'That's not true, Sir Marcus.'
'Prove it.'
'I will, if you'll bear with me for a while.'
'My patience is exhausted.' Taking something from his pocket, he slapped it down on the little table that stood between them. 'Take that and study it carefully.'
'What is it?'
'A list of sailings to France. Choose a boat and be on it today.'
'Today?' spluttered Rogan. 'That's impossible.'
'Not if you put your mind to it, man. Now stop arguing with me and be on your way. And whatever else you do,' he added, spitting the words out like so many bullets, 'don't you dare return from that confounded country with bad news for me. Is that understood?'
Rogan gulped down his whisky then grabbed the piece of paper from the table. After pulling out his watch to check the time, he got to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
'Yes, Sir Marcus,' he said, obsequiously. 'It's understood.'
'I don't think we've met before, have we?' said Father Slattery, offering his hand. 'Welcome to France, my friend.'
'The name is Mulryne,' said the other, extending his vast palm for the handshake. 'Brendan Mulryne.'
'I thought it might be. I've heard the stories.'
'Don't believe a word of them, Father. You know what terrible liars the Irish are. I'm just an ordinary lad who likes to keep his head down and get on with his work.'
'Is that why you weren't at church on Sunday?'
Mulryne feigned ignorance. 'I didn't know there was a church.'
'Then it's blind you must be, Brendan Mulryne, for everyone in the camp knows where we hold our services. We've no building as such and the altar is an old table with a piece of white cloth over it, but we can still worship
