“Light a cigar first,” said the blind man, holding out his case and waiting until the various sounds told him that his host was smoking contentedly.  “The train you were driving at the time of the accident was the six-twenty-seven from Notcliff.  It stopped everywhere until it reached Lambeth Bridge, the chief London station on your line.  There it became something of an express, and leaving Lambeth Bridge at seven-eleven, should not stop again until it fetched Swanstead on Thames, eleven miles out, at seven-thirty-four.  Then it stopped on and off from Swanstead to Ingerfield, the terminus of that branch, which it reached at eight-five.”

Hutchins nodded, and then, remembering, said:  “That’s right, sir.”

“That was your business all day—­running between Notcliff and Ingerfield?”

“Yes, sir.  Three journeys up and three down mostly.”

“With the same stops on all the down journeys?”

“No.  The seven-eleven is the only one that does a run from the Bridge to Swanstead.  You see, it is just on the close of the evening rush, as they call it.  A good many late business gentlemen living at Swanstead use the seven-eleven regular.  The other journeys we stop at every station to Lambeth Bridge, and then here and there beyond.”

“There are, of course, other trains doing exactly the same journey—­a service, in fact?”

“Yes, sir.  About six.”

“And do any of those—­say, during the rush—­do any of those run non-stop from Lambeth to Swanstead?”

Hutchins reflected a moment.  All the choler and restlessness had melted out of the man’s face.  He was again the excellent artisan, slow but capable and self-reliant.

“That I couldn’t definitely say, sir.  Very few short-distance trains pass the junction, but some of those may.  A guide would show us in a minute but I haven’t got one.”

“Never mind.  You said at the inquest that it was no uncommon thing for you to be pulled up at the ‘stop’ signal east of Knight’s Cross Station.  How often would that happen—­only with the seven-eleven, mind.”

“Perhaps three times a week; perhaps twice.”

“The accident was on a Thursday.  Have you noticed that you were pulled up oftener on a Thursday than on any other day?”

A smile crossed the driver’s face at the question.

“You don’t happen to live at Swanstead yourself, sir?” he asked in reply.

“No,” admitted Carrados.  “Why?”

“Well, sir, we were always pulled up on Thursday; practically always, you may say.  It got to be quite a saying among those who used the train regular; they used to look out for it.”

Carrados’s sightless eyes had the one quality of concealing emotion supremely.  “Oh,” he commented softly, “always; and it was quite a saying, was it?  And why was it always so on Thursday?”

“It had to do with the early closing, I’m told.  The suburban traffic was a bit different.  By rights we ought to have been set back two minutes for that day, but I suppose it wasn’t thought worth while to alter us in the time-table so we most always had to wait outside Three Deep tunnel for a west-bound electric to make good.”