“That came out at the inquest, I presume?” said Mr. Carlyle.  “We have had the Board of Trade inquiry and the inquest here and no explanation is forthcoming.  Everything was in perfect order.  It rests between the word of the signalman and the word of the engine-driver—­not a jot of direct evidence either way.  Which is right?”

“That is what you are going to find out, Louis?” suggested Carrados.

“It is what I am being paid for finding out,” admitted Mr. Carlyle frankly.  “But so far we are just where the inquest left it, and, between ourselves, I candidly can’t see an inch in front of my face in the matter.”

“Nor can I,” said the blind man, with a rather wry smile.  “Never mind.  The engine-driver is your client, of course?”

“Yes,” admitted Carlyle.  “But how the deuce did you know?”

“Let us say that your sympathies are enlisted on his behalf.  The jury were inclined to exonerate the signalman, weren’t they?  What has the company done with your man?”

“Both are suspended.  Hutchins, the driver, hears that he may probably be given charge of a lavatory at one of the stations.  He is a decent, bluff, short-spoken old chap, with his heart in his work.  Just now you’ll find him at his worst—­bitter and suspicious.  The thought of swabbing down a lavatory and taking pennies all day is poisoning him.”

“Naturally.  Well, there we have honest Hutchins:  taciturn, a little touchy perhaps, grown grey in the service of the company, and manifesting quite a bulldog-like devotion to his favourite 538.”

“Why, that actually was the number of his engine—­how do you know it?” demanded Carlyle sharply.

“It was mentioned two or three times at the inquest, Louis,” replied Carrados mildly.

“And you remembered—­with no reason to?”

“You can generally trust a blind man’s memory, especially if he has taken the trouble to develop it.”

“Then you will remember that Hutchins did not make a very good impression at the time.  He was surly and irritable under the ordeal.  I want you to see the case from all sides.”

“He called the signalman—­Mead—­a ‘lying young dog,’ across the room, I believe.  Now, Mead, what is he like?  You have seen him, of course?”

“Yes.  He does not impress me favourably.  He is glib, ingratiating, and distinctly ‘greasy.’  He has a ready answer for everything almost before the question is out of your mouth.  He has thought of everything.”

“And now you are going to tell me something, Louis,” said Carrados encouragingly.

Mr. Carlyle laughed a little to cover an involuntary movement of surprise.

“There is a suggestive line that was not touched at the inquiries,” he admitted.  “Hutchins has been a saving man all his life, and he has received good wages.  Among his class he is regarded as wealthy.  I daresay that he has five hundred pounds in the bank.  He is a widower with one daughter, a very nice-mannered girl of about twenty.  Mead is a young man, and he and the girl are sweethearts—­have been informally engaged for some time.  But old Hutchins would not hear of it; he seems to have taken a dislike to the signalman from the first, and latterly he had forbidden him to come to his house or his daughter to speak to him.”