Max Carrados. Bramah Ernest

power. I can imagine the idea becoming an obsession as he dwells on it. A dozen times with his hand on the lever he lets his mind explore the possibilities of a moment’s defection. Then one day he pulls the signal off in sheer bravado – and hastily puts it at danger again. He may have done it once or he may have done it oftener before he was caught in a fatal moment of irresolution. The chances are about even that the engine-driver would be killed. In any case he would be disgraced, for it is easier on the face of it to believe that a man might run past a danger signal in absentmindedness, without noticing it, than that a man should pull off a signal and replace it without being conscious of his actions.”

      “The fireman was killed. Does your theory involve the certainty of the fireman being killed, Louis?”

      “No,” said Carlyle. “The fireman is a difficulty, but looking at it from Mead’s point of view – whether he has been guilty of an error or a crime – it resolves itself into this: First, the fireman may be killed. Second, he may not notice the signal at all. Third, in any case he will loyally corroborate his driver and the good old jury will discount that.”

      Carrados smoked thoughtfully, his open, sightless eyes merely appearing to be set in a tranquil gaze across the room.

      “It would not be an improbable explanation,” he said presently. “Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would say: ‘People do not do these things.’ But you and I, who have in our different ways studied criminology, know that they sometimes do, or else there would be no curious crimes. What have you done on that line?”

      To anyone who could see, Mr Carlyle’s expression conveyed an answer.

      “You are behind the scenes, Max. What was there for me to do? Still I must do something for my money. Well, I have had a very close inquiry made confidentially among the men. There might be a whisper of one of them knowing more than had come out – a man restrained by friendship, or enmity, or even grade jealousy. Nothing came of that. Then there was the remote chance that some private person had noticed the signal without attaching any importance to it then, one who would be able to identify it still by something associated with the time. I went over the line myself. Opposite the signal the line on one side is shut in by a high blank wall; on the other side are houses, but coming below the butt-end of a scullery the signal does not happen to be visible from any road or from any window.”

      “My poor Louis!” said Carrados, in friendly ridicule. “You were at the end of your tether?”

      “I was,” admitted Carlyle. “And now that you know the sort of job it is I don’t suppose that you are keen on wasting your time over it.”

      “That would hardly be fair, would it?” said Carrados reasonably. “No, Louis, I will take over your honest old driver and your greasy young signalman and your fatal signal that cannot be seen from anywhere.”

      “But it is an important point for you to remember, Max, that although the signal cannot be seen from the box, if the mechanism had gone wrong, or anyone tampered with the arm, the automatic indicator would at once have told Mead that the green light was showing. Oh, I have gone very thoroughly into the technical points, I assure you.”

      “I must do so too,” commented Mr Carrados gravely.

      “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 to-morrow? He is doing nothing.”

      “No,” replied Carrados. “To-morrow 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. To-day 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