doctor said, and even his voice shook a little. "His own hand
could never have driven that knife home. I can tell you, even,
how it was done. The man who stabbed him was in the compartment
behind there, leaned over, and drove this thing down, just
missing the shoulder. There was no struggle or fight of any sort.
It was a diabolical deed!"

"Diabolical indeed!" the station-master echoed hoarsely.

"You had better give orders for us to be shunted down on to a
siding just as we are," the doctor continued, "and send one of
your men to telephone to Scotland Yard. Perhaps it would be as
well, too, not to touch those papers until some one comes. See
that the attendant does not go home, or the guard. They will
probably be wanted to answer questions."

The station-master stepped out to the platform, summoned an
inspector, and gave a few brief orders. Slowly the saloon was
backed out of the station again on to a neglected siding, a sort
of backwater for spare carriages and empty trucks,--an
ignominious resting place, indeed, after its splendid journey
through the night. The doors at both ends were closed and two
policemen placed on duty to guard them. The doctor and the
station-master seated themselves out of sight of their gruesome
companion, and the station-master told all that he knew about the
despatch of the special and the man who had ordered it. The
attendant, who still moved about like a man in a dream, brought
them some brandy and soda and served them with shaking hand. They
all three talked together in whispers, the attendant telling them
the few incidents of the journey down, which, except for the dead