“ There’s no one on the line. Nq one to 
do it.” Inspector Jones treated ns to a flow 
of brisk abuse as he ordered us to start 
ahead. 
“ Ten minutes late,” he roared, “ with the 
South-bound waiting for us and these English- 
men on the train ! I’ll report this. Who could 
wave us down out here ? ” 
I dared not say what I had really seen. It 
would have meant instant dismissal for 
drunkenness, but I repeated doggedly that 
we had been waved down and there must be 
something ahead. Until I saw what, I de- 
clined to start the engine on her road. 
“ This will be a nice report to hand in.” he 
growled. And then, more softly, to a man 
outside — “ T expect his head’s gone — wife 
dy ill, y’know. Jack, here, can run her,” 
he said. “ Give her over to him.” 
“ I’d like to squint ahead, sir.” said Jack, 
doubtfully. “ We were waved down, right 
enough.” 
“ Someone out here?— it’s sheer, downright 
nonsense. But come and see for yourself. 
Protesting and furious, the inspector dropped 
out. and we hurried down the line. 
Mist-shrouded desolation on either side ; 
no house within miles. The chill folly of my 
story made me shiver. Who, indeed, could 
have stood out there to stop us ? No one 
would ever believe me. The sullen, roaring 
boom of the river surged higher and higher 
as we neared the bridge. 
Our lamps held out, we scanned the empty 
