"I'm all right," Gerald muttered, "at least, I suppose I am. What's
it all--what's it all about? We've had an accident."

The porter caught hold of a piece of the wreckage with which to
steady himself.

"Your train ran right into three feet of water," he answered. "The
rails had gone--torn up. The telegraph line's down."

"Why didn't you stop the train?"

"We were doing all we could," the man retorted gloomily. "We weren't
expecting anything else through to-night. We'd a man along the line
with a lantern, but he's just been found blown over the embankment,
with his head in a pool of water. Any one else in your carriage?"

"One gentleman travelling with me," Gerald answered. "We'd better
try to get him out. What about the guard and engine-driver?"

"The engine-driver and stoker are both alive," the porter told him.
"I came across them before I saw you. They're both knocked sort
of sillylike, but they aren't much hurt. The guard's stone dead."

"Where are we?"

"A few hundred yards from Wymondham. Let's have a look for the
other gentleman."

Mr. John P. Dunster was lying quite still, his right leg doubled
up, and a huge block of telegraph post, which the saloon had carried