morning, I see, on the Great Southern line. Somewhere down Cyril's
way, too; he's painting near Chetwood; wonder whether he could
possibly, by any chance, have been in it?"

He drew the paper carelessly from his pocket as he spoke, and handed
it with a graceful air of inborn courtesy to his younger companion.
Everything that Montague Nevitt did, indeed, was naturally graceful
and courteous.

Guy Waring took the printed sheet from his hands without attaching
much importance to his words, and glanced over it lightly.

"At ten o'clock this morning," the telegram said, "a singular
catastrophe occurred in a portion of the Lavington tunnel on the
Great Southern Railway. As the 9.15 way-train from Tilgate Junction
to Guildford was passing through, a segment of the roof of the
tunnel collapsed, under pressure of the dislocated rock on top,
and bore down with enormous weight upon the carriages beneath it.
The engine, tender, and four front waggons escaped unhurt; but the
two hindmost, it is feared, were crushed by the falling mass of
earth. It is not yet known how many passengers, if any, may have
been occupying the wrecked compartments; but every effort is now
being made to dig out the debris."

Guy read the paragraph through unmoved, to the outer eye, though
with a whitening face, and then took up the dog-eared "Bradshaw"
that lay close by upon the little oak writing-table. His hand
trembled. One glance at the map, however, set his mind at rest.

"I thought so," he said quietly. "Cyril wouldn't be there. It's