"This is Euston, sir," the station-master began,--"the
terminus--"

Then he broke off in the middle of his sentence. A cold shiver
was creeping through his veins. He, too, began to stare; he felt
the color leaving his own cheeks. With an effort he turned to the
attendant.

"Pull down the blinds," he ordered, in a voice which he should
never have recognized as his own. "Quick! Now turn out those
porters, and tell the inspector to stop anyone from coming into
the car."

The attendant, who was shaking like a leaf, obeyed. The
station-master turned away and drew a long breath. He himself was
conscious of a sense of nausea, a giddiness which was almost
overmastering. This was a terrible thing to face without a
second's warning. He had not the slightest doubt but that the man
who was seated at the table was dead!

At such an hour there were only a few people upon the platform,
and two stalwart station policemen easily kept back the loiterers
whose curiosity had been excited by the arrival of the special. A
third took up his position with his back to the entrance of the
saloon, and allowed no one to enter it till the return of the
station-master, who had gone for a doctor. The little crowd was
completely mystified. No one had the slightest idea of what had
happened. The attendant was besieged by questions, but he was
sitting on the step of the car, in the shadow of a policeman,
with his head buried in his hands, and he did not once look up.