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 man’s nervous desire for solitude, seemed to possess very little significance.  Then at last there was a sharp tap at the window.  A tall, quietly dressed man, with reddish skin and clear gray eyes, was helped up into the car.  He saluted the doctor mechanically.  His eyes were already travelling around the saloon.

“Inspector Jacks from Scotland Yard, sir,” he announced.  “I have another man outside.  If you don’t mind, we’ll have him in.”

“By all means,” the station-master answered.  “I am afraid that you will find this rather a serious affair.  We have left everything untouched so far as we could.”

The second detective was assisted to clamber up into the car.  It seemed, however, as though the whole force of Scotland Yard could scarcely do much towards elucidating an affair which, with every question which was asked and answered, grew more mysterious.  The papers upon the table before the dead man were simply circulars and prospectuses of no possible importance.  His suitcase contained merely a few toilet necessaries and some clean linen.  There was not a scrap of paper or even an envelope of any sort in his pockets.  In a small leather case they found a thousand dollars in American notes, five ten-pound Bank of England notes, and a single visiting card on which was engraved the name of Mr. Hamilton Fynes.  In his trousers pocket was a handful of gold.  He had no other personal belongings of any sort.  The space between the lining of his coat and the material itself was duly noticed, but it was empty.  His watch was a cheap one, his linen unmarked, and his clothes bore only the name of a great New York retail establishment.  He had certainly entered the train alone, and both the guard and attendant were ready to declare positively that no person could have been concealed in it.  The engine-driver, on his part, was equally ready to swear that not once from the moment when they had steamed out of Liverpool Station until they had arrived within twenty miles of London, had they travelled at less than forty miles an hour.  At Willington he had found a signal against him which had brought