Chapter 3

I was making experiments of some interest at South Kensington, and hoped
that I had perfected a small but not unimportant discovery, when, on
returning home one evening in late October in the year 1893, I found a
visiting card on my table. On it were inscribed the words, "Mr. Geoffrey
Bainbridge." This name was quite unknown to me, so I rang the bell and
inquired of my servant who the visitor had been. He described him as a
gentleman who wished to see me on most urgent business, and said further
that Mr. Bainbridge intended to call again later in the evening. It was
with both curiosity and vexation that I awaited the return of the
stranger. Urgent business with me generally meant a hurried rush to one
part of the country or the other. I did not want to leave London just
then; and when at half-past nine Mr. Geoffrey Bainbridge was ushered
into my room, I received him with a certain coldness which he could not
fail to perceive. He was a tall, well-dressed, elderly man. He
immediately plunged into the object of his visit.

"I hope you do not consider my unexpected presence an intrusion, Mr.
Bell," he said. "But I have heard of you from our mutual friends, the
Greys of Uplands. You may remember once doing that family a great
service."

"I remember perfectly well," I answered more cordially. "Pray tell me
what you want; I shall listen with attention."

"I believe you are the one man in London who can help me," he continued.
"I refer to a matter especially relating to your own particular study. I
need hardly say that whatever you do will not be unrewarded."

"That is neither here nor there," I said; "but before you go any
further, allow me to ask one question. Do you want me to leave London at
present?"

He raised his eyebrows in dismay.

"I certainly do," he answered.

"Very well; pray proceed with your story."

He looked at me with anxiety.

"In the first place," he began, "I must tell you that I am chairman of
the Lytton Vale Railway Company in Wales, and that it is on an important
matter connected with our line that I have come to consult you. When I
explain to you the nature of the mystery, you will not wonder, I think,
at my soliciting your aid."

"I will give you my closest attention," I answered; and then I added,
impelled to say the latter words by a certain expression on his face,
"if I can see my way to assisting you I shall be ready to do so."

"Pray accept my cordial thanks," he replied. "I have come up from my
place at Felwyn to-day on purpose to consult you. It is in that
neighbourhood that the affair has occurred. As it is essential that you
should be in possession of the facts of the whole matter, I will go over
things just as they happened."

I bent forward and listened attentively.

"This day fortnight," continued Mr. Bainbridge, "our quiet little
village was horrified by the news that the signalman on duty at the
mouth of the Felwyn Tunnel had been found dead under the most mysterious
circumstances. The tunnel is at the end of a long cutting between
Llanlys and Felwyn stations. It is about a mile long, and the signal-box
is on the Felwyn side. The place is extremely lonely, being six miles
from the village across the mountains. The name of the poor fellow who
met his death in this mysterious fashion was David Pritchard. I have
known him from a boy, and he was quite one of the steadiest and most
trustworthy men on the line. On Tuesday evening he went on duty at six
o'clock; on Wednesday morning the day-man who had come to relieve him
was surprised not to find him in the box. It was just getting daylight,
and the 6.30 local was coming down, so he pulled the signals and let her
through. Then he went out, and, looking up the line towards the tunnel,
saw Pritchard lying beside the line close to the mouth of the tunnel.
Roberts, the day-man, ran up to him and found, to his horror, that he
was quite dead. At first Roberts naturally supposed that he had been cut
down by a train, as there was a wound at the back of the head; but he
was not lying on the metals. Roberts ran back to the box and telegraphed
through to Felwyn Station. The message was sent on to the village, and
at half-past seven o'clock the police inspector came up to my house with
the news. He and I, with the local doctor, went off at once to the
tunnel. We found the dead man lying beside the metals a few yards away
from the mouth of the tunnel, and the doctor immediately gave him a
careful examination. There was a depressed fracture at the back of the
skull, which must have caused his death; but how he came by it was not
so clear. On examining the whole place most carefully, we saw, further,
that there were marks on the rocks at the steep side of the embankment
as if some one had tried to scramble up them. Why the poor fellow had
attempted such a climb, God only knows. In doing so he must have slipped
and fallen back on to the line, thus causing the fracture of the skull.
In no case could he have gone up more than eight or ten feet, as the
banks of the cutting run sheer up, almost perpendicularly, beyond that
point for more than a hundred and fifty feet. There are some sharp
boulders beside the line, and it was possible that he might have fallen
on one of these and so sustained the injury. The affair must have
occurred some time between 11.45 p.m. and 6 a.m., as the engine-driver
of the express at 11.45 p.m. states that the line was signalled clear,
and he also caught sight of Pritchard in his box as he passed."

"This is deeply interesting," I said; "pray proceed."

Bainbridge looked at me earnestly; he then continued:--

"The whole thing is shrouded in mystery. Why should Pritchard have left
his box and gone down to the tunnel? Why, having done so, should he have
made a wild attempt to scale the side of the cutting, an impossible feat
at any time? Had danger threatened, the ordinary course of things would
have been to run up the line towards the signal-box. These points are
quite unexplained. Another curious fact is that death appears to have
taken place just before the day-man came on duty, as the light at the
mouth of the tunnel had been put out, and it was one of the night
signalman's duties to do this as soon as daylight appeared; it is
possible, therefore, that Pritchard went down to the tunnel for that
purpose. Against this theory, however, and an objection that seems to
nullify it, is the evidence of Dr. Williams, who states that when he
examined the body his opinion was that death had taken place some hours
before. An inquest was held on the following day, but before it took
place there was a new and most important development. I now come to what
I consider the crucial point in the whole story.

"For a long time there had been a feud between Pritchard and another man
of the name of Wynne, a platelayer on the line. The object of their
quarrel was the blacksmith's daughter in the neighbouring village--a
remarkably pretty girl and an arrant flirt. Both men were madly in love
with her, and she played them off one against the other. The night but
one before his death Pritchard and Wynne had met at the village inn, had
quarrelled in the bar--Lucy, of course, being the subject of their
difference. Wynne was heard to say (he was a man of powerful build and
subject to fits of ungovernable rage) that he would have Pritchard's
life. Pritchard swore a great oath that he would get Lucy on the
following day to promise to marry him. This oath, it appears, he kept,
and on his way to the signal-box on Tuesday evening met Wynne, and
triumphantly told him that Lucy had promised to be his wife. The men had
a hand-to-hand fight on the spot, several people from the village being
witnesses of it. They were separated with difficulty, each vowing
vengeance on the other. Pritchard went off to his duty at the signal-box
and Wynne returned to the village to drown his sorrows at the
public-house.

"Very late that same night Wynne was seen by a villager going in the
direction of the tunnel. The man stopped him and questioned him. He
explained that he had left some of his tools on the line, and was on his
way to fetch them. The villager noticed that he looked queer and
excited, but not wishing to pick a quarrel thought it best not to
question him further. It has been proved that Wynne never returned home
that night, but came back at an early hour on the following morning,
looking dazed and stupid. He was arrested on suspicion, and at the
inquest the verdict was against him."

"Has he given any explanation of his own movements?" I asked.

"Yes; but nothing that can clear him. As a matter of fact, his tools
were nowhere to be seen on the line, nor did he bring them home with
him. His own story is that being considerably the worse for drink, he
had fallen down in one of the fields and slept there till morning."

"Things look black against him," I said.

"They do; but listen, I have something more to add. Here comes a very
queer feature in the affair. Lucy Ray, the girl who had caused the feud
between Pritchard and Wynne, after hearing the news of Pritchard's
death, completely lost her head, and ran frantically about the village
declaring that Wynne was the man she really loved, and that she had only
accepted Pritchard in a fit of rage with Wynne for not himself bringing
matters to the point. The case looks very bad against Wynne, and
yesterday the magistrate committed him for trial at the coming assizes.
The unhappy Lucy Ray and the young man's parents are in a state
bordering on distraction."

"What is your own opinion with regard to Wynne's guilt?" I asked.

"Before God, Mr. Bell, I believe the poor fellow is innocent, but the
evidence against him is very strong. One of the favourite theories is
that he went down to the tunnel and extinguished the light, knowing that
this would bring Pritchard out of his box to see what was the matter,
and that he then attacked him, striking the blow which fractured the
skull."

"Has any weapon been found about, with which he could have given such a
blow?"

"No; nor has anything of the kind been discovered on Wynne's person;
that fact is decidedly in his favour."

"But what about the marks on the rocks?" I asked.

"It is possible that Wynne may have made them in order to divert
suspicion by making people think that Pritchard must have fallen, and so
killed himself. The holders of this theory base their belief on the
absolute want of cause for Pritchard's trying to scale the rock. The
whole thing is the most absolute enigma. Some of the country folk have
declared that the tunnel is haunted (and there certainly has been such a
rumour current among them for years). That Pritchard saw some
apparition, and in wild terror sought to escape from it by climbing the
rocks, is another theory, but only the most imaginative hold it."

"Well, it is a most extraordinary case," I replied.

"Yes, Mr. Bell, and I should like to get your opinion of it. Do you see
your way to elucidate the mystery?"

"Not at present; but I shall be happy to investigate the matter to my
utmost ability."

"But you do not wish to leave London at present?"

"That is so; but a matter of such importance cannot be set aside. It
appears, from what you say, that Wynne's life hangs more or less on my
being able to clear away the mystery?"

"That is indeed the case. There ought not to be a single stone left
unturned to get at the truth, for the sake of Wynne. Well, Mr. Bell,
what do you propose to do?"

"To see the place without delay," I answered.

"That is right; when can you come?"

"Whenever you please."

"Will you come down to Felwyn with me to-morrow? I shall leave
Paddington by the 7.10, and if you will be my guest I shall be only too
pleased to put you up."

"That arrangement will suit me admirably," I replied. "I will meet you
by the train you mention, and the affair shall have my best attention."

"Thank you," he said, rising. He shook hands with me and took his leave.

The next day I met Bainbridge at Paddington Station, and we were soon
flying westward in the luxurious private compartment that had been
reserved for him. I could see by his abstracted manner and his long
lapses of silence that the mysterious affair at Felwyn Tunnel was
occupying all his thoughts.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon when the train slowed down at the
little station of Felwyn. The station-master was at the door in an
instant to receive us.

"I have some terribly bad news for you, sir," he said, turning to
Bainbridge as we alighted; "and yet in one sense it is a relief, for it
seems to clear Wynne."

"What do you mean?" cried Bainbridge. "Bad news? Speak out at once!"

"Well, sir, it is this: there has been another death at Felwyn
signal-box. John Davidson, who was on duty last night, was found dead at
an early hour this morning in the very same place where we found poor
Pritchard."

"Good God!" cried Bainbridge, starting back, "what an awful thing! What,
in the name of Heaven, does it mean, Mr. Bell? This is too fearful.
Thank goodness you have come down with us."

"It is as black a business as I ever heard of, sir," echoed the
station-master; "and what we are to do I don't know. Poor Davidson was
found dead this morning, and there was neither mark nor sign of what
killed him--that is the extraordinary part of it. There's a perfect
panic abroad, and not a signalman on the line will take duty to-night. I
was quite in despair, and was afraid at one time that the line would
have to be closed, but at last it occurred to me to wire to Lytton Vale,
and they are sending down an inspector. I expect him by a special every
moment. I believe this is he coming now," added the station-master,
looking up the line.

There was the sound of a whistle down the valley, and in a few moments a
single engine shot into the station, and an official in uniform stepped
on to the platform.

"Good-evening, sir," he said, touching his cap to Bainbridge; "I have
just been sent down to inquire into this affair at the Felwyn Tunnel,
and though it seems more of a matter for a Scotland Yard detective than
one of ourselves, there was nothing for it but to come. All the same,
Mr. Bainbridge, I cannot say that I look forward to spending to-night
alone at the place."

"You wish for the services of a detective, but you shall have some one
better," said Bainbridge, turning towards me. "This gentleman, Mr. John
Bell, is the man of all others for our business. I have just brought him
down from London for the purpose."

An expression of relief flitted across the inspector's face.

"I am very glad to see you, sir," he said to me, "and I hope you will be
able to spend the night with me in the signal-box. I must say I don't
much relish the idea of tackling the thing single-handed; but with your
help, sir, I think we ought to get to the bottom of it somehow. I am
afraid there is not a man on the line who will take duty until we do. So
it is most important that the thing should be cleared, and without
delay."

I readily assented to the inspector's proposition, and Bainbridge and I
arranged that we should call for him at four o'clock at the village inn
and drive him to the tunnel.

We then stepped into the wagonette which was waiting for us, and drove
to Bainbridge's house.

Mrs. Bainbridge came out to meet us, and was full of the tragedy. Two
pretty girls also ran to greet their father, and to glance inquisitively
at me. I could see that the entire family was in a state of much
excitement.

"Lucy Ray has just left, father," said the elder of the girls. "We had
much trouble to soothe her; she is in a frantic state."

"You have heard, Mr. Bell, all about this dreadful mystery?" said Mrs.
Bainbridge as she led me towards the dining-room.

"Yes," I answered; "your husband has been good enough to give me every
particular."

"And you have really come here to help us?"

"I hope I may be able to discover the cause," I answered.

"It certainly seems most extraordinary," continued Mrs. Bainbridge. "My
dear," she continued, turning to her husband, "you can easily imagine
the state we were all in this morning when the news of the second death
was brought to us."

"For my part," said Ella Bainbridge, "I am sure that Felwyn Tunnel is
haunted. The villagers have thought so for a long time, and this second
death seems to prove it, does it not?" Here she looked anxiously at me.

"I can offer no opinion," I replied, "until I have sifted the matter
thoroughly."

"Come, Ella, don't worry Mr. Bell," said her father; "if he is as hungry
as I am, he must want his lunch."

We then seated ourselves at the table and commenced the meal.
Bainbridge, although he professed to be hungry, was in such a state of
excitement that he could scarcely eat. Immediately after lunch he left
me to the care of his family and went into the village.

"It is just like him," said Mrs. Bainbridge; "he takes these sort of
things to heart dreadfully. He is terribly upset about Lucy Ray, and
also about the poor fellow Wynne. It is certainly a fearful tragedy from
first to last."

"Well, at any rate," I said, "this fresh death will upset the evidence
against Wynne."

"I hope so, and there is some satisfaction in the fact. Well, Mr. Bell,
I see you have finished lunch; will you come into the drawing-room?"

I followed her into a pleasant room overlooking the valley of the
Lytton.

By-and-by Bainbridge returned, and soon afterwards the dog-cart came to
the door. My host and I mounted, Bainbridge took the reins, and we
started off at a brisk pace.

"Matters get worse and worse," he said the moment we were alone. "If you
don't clear things up to-night, Bell, I say frankly that I cannot
imagine what will happen."

We entered the village, and as we rattled down the ill-paved streets I
was greeted with curious glances on all sides. The people were standing
about in groups, evidently talking about the tragedy and nothing else.
Suddenly, as our trap bumped noisily over the paving-stones, a girl
darted out of one of the houses and made frantic motions to Bainbridge
to stop the horse. He pulled the mare nearly up on her haunches, and the
girl came up to the side of the dog-cart.

"You have heard it?" she said, speaking eagerly and in a gasping voice.
"The death which occurred this morning will clear Stephen Wynne, won't
it, Mr. Bainbridge?--it will, you are sure, are you not?"

"It looks like it, Lucy, my poor girl," he answered. "But there, the
whole thing is so terrible that I scarcely know what to think."

She was a pretty girl with dark eyes, and under ordinary circumstances
must have had the vivacious expression of face and the brilliant
complexion which so many of her countrywomen possess. But now her eyes
were swollen with weeping and her complexion more or less disfigured by
the agony she had gone through. She looked piteously at Bainbridge, her
lips trembling. The next moment she burst into tears.

"Come away, Lucy," said a woman who had followed her out of the cottage;
"Fie--for shame! don't trouble the gentlemen; come back and stay
quiet."

"I can't, mother, I can't," said the unfortunate girl. "If they hang
him, I'll go clean off my head. Oh, Mr. Bainbridge, do say that the
second death has cleared him!"

"I have every hope that it will do so, Lucy," said Bainbridge, "but now
don't keep us, there's a good girl; go back into the house. This
gentleman has come down from London on purpose to look into the whole
matter. I may have good news for you in the morning."

The girl raised her eyes to my face with a look of intense pleading.
"Oh, I have been cruel and a fool, and I deserve everything," she
gasped; "but, sir, for the love of Heaven, try to clear him."

I promised to do my best.

Bainbridge touched up the mare, she bounded forward, and Lucy
disappeared into the cottage with her mother.

The next moment we drew up at the inn where the Inspector was waiting,
and soon afterwards were bowling along between the high banks of the
country lanes to the tunnel. It was a cold, still afternoon; the air was
wonderfully keen, for a sharp frost had held the countryside in its grip
for the last two days. The sun was just tipping the hills to westward
when the trap pulled up at the top of the cutting. We hastily alighted,
and the Inspector and I bade Bainbridge good-bye. He said that he only
wished that he could stay with us for the night, assured us that little
sleep would visit him, and that he would be back at the cutting at an
early hour on the following morning; then the noise of his horse's feet
was heard fainter and fainter as he drove back over the frost-bound
roads. The Inspector and I ran along the little path to the wicket-gate
in the fence, stamping our feet on the hard ground to restore
circulation after our cold drive. The next moment we were looking down
upon the scene of the mysterious deaths, and a weird and lonely place it
looked. The tunnel was at one end of the rock cutting, the sides of
which ran sheer down to the line for over a hundred and fifty feet.
Above the tunnel's mouth the hills rose one upon the other. A more
dreary place it would have been difficult to imagine. From a little
clump of pines a delicate film of blue smoke rose straight up on the
still air. This came from the chimney of the signal-box.

As we started to descend the precipitous path the Inspector sang out a
cheery "Hullo!" The man on duty in the box immediately answered. His
voice echoed and reverberated down the cutting, and the next moment he
appeared at the door of the box. He told us that he would be with us
immediately; but we called back to him to stay where he was, and the
next instant the Inspector and I entered the box.

"The first thing to do," said Henderson the Inspector, "is to send a
message down the line to announce our arrival."

This he did, and in a few moments a crawling goods train came panting up
the cutting. After signalling her through we descended the wooden flight
of steps which led from the box down to the line and walked along the
metals towards the tunnel till we stood on the spot where poor Davidson
had been found dead that morning. I examined the ground and all around
it most carefully. Everything tallied exactly with the description I had
received. There could be no possible way of approaching the spot except
by going along the line, as the rocky sides of the cutting were
inaccessible.

"It is a most extraordinary thing, sir," said the signalman whom we had
come to relieve. "Davidson had neither mark nor sign on him--there he
lay stone dead and cold, and not a bruise nowhere; but Pritchard had an
awful wound at the back of the head. They said he got it by climbing the
rocks--here, you can see the marks for yourself, sir. But now, is it
likely that Pritchard would try to climb rocks like these, so steep as
they are?"

"Certainly not," I replied.

"Then how do you account for the wound, sir?" asked the man with an
anxious face.

"I cannot tell you at present," I answered.

"And you and Inspector Henderson are going to spend the night in the
signal-box?"

"Yes."

A horrified expression crept over the signalman's face.

"God preserve you both," he said; "I wouldn't do it--not for fifty
pounds. It's not the first time I have heard tell that Felwyn Tunnel is
haunted. But, there, I won't say any more about that. It's a black
business, and has given trouble enough. There's poor Wynne, the same
thing as convicted of the murder of Pritchard; but now they say that
Davidson's death will clear him. Davidson was as good a fellow as you
would come across this side of the country; but for the matter of that,
so was Pritchard. The whole thing is terrible--it upsets one, that it
do, sir."

"I don't wonder at your feelings," I answered; "but now, see here, I
want to make a most careful examination of everything. One of the
theories is that Wynne crept down this rocky side and fractured
Pritchard's skull. I believe such a feat to be impossible. On examining
these rocks I see that a man might climb up the side of the tunnel as
far as from eight to ten feet, utilising the sharp projections of rock
for the purpose; but it would be out of the question for any man to come
down the cutting. No; the only way Wynne could have approached Pritchard
was by the line itself. But, after all, the real thing to discover is
this," I continued: "what killed Davidson? Whatever caused his death is,
beyond doubt, equally responsible for Pritchard's. I am now going into
the tunnel."

Inspector Henderson went in with me. The place struck damp and chill.
The walls were covered with green, evil-smelling fungi, and through the
brickwork the moisture was oozing and had trickled down in long lines to
the ground. Before us was nothing but dense darkness.

When we re-appeared the signalman was lighting the red lamp on the post,
which stood about five feet from the ground just above the entrance to
the tunnel.

"Is there plenty of oil?" asked the Inspector.

"Yes, sir, plenty," replied the man. "Is there anything more I can do
for either of you gentlemen?" he asked, pausing, and evidently dying to
be off.

"Nothing," answered Henderson; "I will wish you good-evening."

"Good-evening to you both," said the man. He made his way quickly up the
path and was soon lost to sight.

Henderson and I then returned to the signal-box.

By this time it was nearly dark.

"How many trains pass in the night?" I asked of the Inspector.

"There's the 10.20 down express," he said, "it will pass here at about
10.40; then there's the 11.45 up, and then not another train till the
6.30 local to-morrow morning. We shan't have a very lively time," he
added.

I approached the fire and bent over it, holding out my hands to try and
get some warmth into them.

"It will take a good deal to persuade me to go down to the tunnel,
whatever I may see there," said the man. "I don't think, Mr. Bell, I am
a coward in any sense of the word, but there's something very uncanny
about this place, right away from the rest of the world. I don't wonder
one often hears of signalmen going mad in some of these lonely boxes.
Have you any theory to account for these deaths, sir?"

"None at present," I replied.

"This second death puts the idea of Pritchard being murdered quite out
of court," he continued.

"I am sure of it," I answered.

"And so am I, and that's one comfort," continued Henderson. "That poor
girl, Lucy Ray, although she was to be blamed for her conduct, is much
to be pitied now; and as to poor Wynne himself, he protests his
innocence through thick and thin. He was a wild fellow, but not the sort
to take the life of a fellow-creature. I saw the doctor this afternoon
while I was waiting for you at the inn, Mr. Bell, and also the police
sergeant. They both say they do not know what Davidson died of. There
was not the least sign of violence on the body."

"Well, I am as puzzled as the rest of you," I said. "I have one or two
theories in my mind, but none of them will quite fit the situation."

The night was piercingly cold, and, although there was not a breath of
wind, the keen and frosty air penetrated into the lonely signal-box. We
spoke little, and both of us were doubtless absorbed by our own thoughts
and speculations. As to Henderson, he looked distinctly uncomfortable,
and I cannot say that my own feelings were too pleasant. Never had I
been given a tougher problem to solve, and never had I been so utterly
at my wits' end for a solution.

Now and then the Inspector got up and went to the telegraph instrument,
which intermittently clicked away in its box. As he did so he made some
casual remark and then sat down again. After the 10.40 had gone through,
there followed a period of silence which seemed almost oppressive. All
at once the stillness was broken by the whirr of the electric bell,
which sounded so sharply in our ears that we both started. Henderson
rose.

"That's the 11.45 coming," he said, and, going over to the three long
levers, he pulled two of them down with a loud clang. The next moment,
with a rush and a scream, the express tore down the cutting, the
carriage lights streamed past in a rapid flash, the ground trembled, a
few sparks from the engine whirled up into the darkness, and the train
plunged into the tunnel.

"And now," said Henderson, as he pushed back the levers, "not another
train till daylight. My word, it is cold!"

It was intensely so. I piled some more wood on the fire and, turning up
the collar of my heavy ulster, sat down at one end of the bench and
leant my back against the wall. Henderson did likewise; we were neither
of us inclined to speak. As a rule, whenever I have any night work to
do, I am never troubled with sleepiness, but on this occasion I felt
unaccountably drowsy. I soon perceived that Henderson was in the same
condition.

"Are you sleepy?" I asked of him.

"Dead with it, sir," was his answer; "but there's no fear, I won't drop
off."

I got up and went to the window of the box. I felt certain that if I sat
still any longer I should be in a sound sleep. This would never do.
Already it was becoming a matter of torture to keep my eyes open. I
began to pace up and down; I opened the door of the box and went out on
the little platform.

"What's the matter, sir?" inquired Henderson, jumping up with a start.

"I cannot keep awake," I said.

"Nor can I," he answered, "and yet I have spent nights and nights of my
life in signal-boxes and never was the least bit drowsy; perhaps it's
the cold."

"Perhaps it is," I said; "but I have been out on as freezing nights
before, and----"

The man did not reply; he had sat down again; his head was nodding.

I was just about to go up to him and shake him, when it suddenly
occurred to me that I might as well let him have his sleep out. I soon
heard him snoring, and he presently fell forward in a heap on the floor.
By dint of walking up and down, I managed to keep from dropping off
myself, and in torture which I shall never be able to describe, the
night wore itself away. At last, towards morning, I awoke Henderson.

"You have had a good nap," I said; "but never mind, I have been on guard
and nothing has occurred."

"Good God! have I been asleep?" cried the man.

"Sound," I answered.

"Well, I never felt anything like it," he replied. "Don't you find the
air very close, sir?"

"No," I said; "it is as fresh as possible; it must be the cold."

"I'll just go and have a look at the light at the tunnel," said the man;
"it will rouse me."

He went on to the little platform, whilst I bent over the fire and began
to build it up. Presently he returned with a scared look on his face. I
could see by the light of the oil lamp which hung on the wall that he
was trembling.

"Mr. Bell," he said, "I believe there is somebody or something down at
the mouth of the tunnel now." As he spoke he clutched me by the arm. "Go
and look," he said; "whoever it is, it has put out the light."

"Put out the light?" I cried. "Why, what's the time?"

Henderson pulled out his watch.

"Thank goodness, most of the night is gone," he said; "I didn't know it
was so late, it is half-past five."

"Then the local is not due for an hour yet?" I said.

"No; but who should put out the light?" cried Henderson.

I went to the door, flung it open, and looked out. The dim outline of
the tunnel was just visible looming through the darkness, but the red
light was out.

"What the dickens does it mean, sir?" gasped the Inspector. "I know the
lamp had plenty of oil in it. Can there be any one standing in front of
it, do you think?"

We waited and watched for a few moments, but nothing stirred.

"Come along," I said, "let us go down together and see what it is."

"I don't believe I can do it, sir; I really don't!"

"Nonsense," I cried. "I shall go down alone if you won't accompany me.
Just hand me my stick, will you?"

"For God's sake, be careful, Mr. Bell. Don't go down, whatever you do. I
expect this is what happened before, and the poor fellows went down to
see what it was and died there. There's some devilry at work, that's my
belief."

"That is as it may be," I answered shortly; "but we certainly shall not
find out by stopping here. My business is to get to the bottom of this,
and I am going to do it. That there is danger of some sort, I have very
little doubt; but danger or not, I am going down."

"If you'll be warned by me, sir, you'll just stay quietly here."

"I must go down and see the matter out," was my answer. "Now listen to
me, Henderson. I see that you are alarmed, and I don't wonder. Just stay
quietly where you are and watch, but if I call come at once. Don't delay
a single instant. Remember I am putting my life into your hands. If I
call 'Come,' just come to me as quick as you can, for I may want help.
Give me that lantern."

He unhitched it from the wall, and taking it from him, I walked
cautiously down the steps on to the line. I still felt curiously,
unaccountably drowsy and heavy. I wondered at this, for the moment was
such a critical one as to make almost any man wide awake. Holding the
lamp high above my head, I walked rapidly along the line. I hardly knew
what I expected to find. Cautiously along the metals I made my way,
peering right and left until I was close to the fatal spot where the
bodies had been found. An uncontrollable shudder passed over me. The
next moment, to my horror, without the slightest warning, the light I
was carrying went out, leaving me in total darkness. I started back, and
stumbling against one of the loose boulders reeled against the wall and
nearly fell. What was the matter with me? I could hardly stand. I felt
giddy and faint, and a horrible sensation of great tightness seized me
across the chest. A loud ringing noise sounded in my ears. Struggling
madly for breath, and with the fear of impending death upon me, I turned
and tried to run from a danger I could neither understand nor grapple
with. But before I had taken two steps my legs gave way from under me,
and uttering a loud cry I fell insensible to the ground.

* * * * *

Out of an oblivion which, for all I knew, might have lasted for moments
or centuries, a dawning consciousness came to me. I knew that I was
lying on hard ground; that I was absolutely incapable of realising, nor
had I the slightest inclination to discover, where I was. All I wanted
was to lie quite still and undisturbed. Presently I opened my eyes.

Some one was bending over me and looking into my face.

"Thank God, he is not dead," I heard in whispered tones. Then, with a
flash, memory returned to me.

"What has happened?" I asked.

"You may well ask that, sir," said the Inspector gravely. "It has been
touch and go with you for the last quarter of an hour; and a near thing
for me too."

I sat up and looked around me. Daylight was just beginning to break, and
I saw that we were at the bottom of the steps that led up to the
signal-box. My teeth were chattering with the cold and I was shivering
like a man with ague.

"I am better now," I said; "just give me your hand."

I took his arm, and holding the rail with the other hand staggered up
into the box and sat down on the bench.

"Yes, it has been a near shave," I said; "and a big price to pay for
solving a mystery."

"Do you mean to say you know what it is?" asked Henderson eagerly.

"Yes," I answered, "I think I know now; but first tell me how long was I
unconscious?"

"A good bit over half an hour, sir, I should think. As soon as I heard
you call out I ran down as you told me, but before I got to you I nearly
fainted. I never had such a horrible sensation in my life. I felt as
weak as a baby, but I just managed to seize you by the arms and drag you
along the line to the steps, and that was about all I could do."

"Well, I owe you my life," I said; "just hand me that brandy flask, I
shall be the better for some of its contents."

I took a long pull. Just as I was laying the flask down Henderson
started from my side.

"There," he cried, "the 6.30 is coming." The electric bell at the
instrument suddenly began to ring. "Ought I to let her go through, sir?"
he inquired.

"Certainly," I answered. "That is exactly what we want. Oh, she will be
all right."

"No danger to her, sir?"

"None, none; let her go through."

He pulled the lever and the next moment the train tore through the
cutting.

"Now I think it will be safe to go down again," I said. "I believe I
shall be able to get to the bottom of this business."

Henderson stared at me aghast.

"Do you mean that you are going down again to the tunnel?" he gasped.

"Yes," I said; "give me those matches. You had better come too. I don't
think there will be much danger now; and there is daylight, so we can
see what we are about."

The man was very loth to obey me, but at last I managed to persuade him.
We went down the line, walking slowly, and at this moment we both felt
our courage revived by a broad and cheerful ray of sunshine.

"We must advance cautiously," I said, "and be ready to run back at a
moment's notice."

"God knows, sir, I think we are running a great risk," panted poor
Henderson; "and if that devil or whatever else it is should happen to be
about--why, daylight or no daylight----"

"Nonsense! man," I interrupted; "if we are careful, no harm will happen
to us now. Ah! and here we are!" We had reached the spot where I had
fallen. "Just give me a match, Henderson."

He did so, and I immediately lit the lamp. Opening the glass of the
lamp, I held it close to the ground and passed it to and fro. Suddenly
the flame went out.

"Don't you understand now?" I said, looking up at the Inspector.

"No, I don't, sir," he replied with a bewildered expression.

Suddenly, before I could make an explanation, we both heard shouts from
the top of the cutting, and looking up I saw Bainbridge hurrying down
the path. He had come in the dog-cart to fetch us.

"Here's the mystery," I cried as he rushed up to us, "and a deadlier
scheme of Dame Nature's to frighten and murder poor humanity I have
never seen."

As I spoke I lit the lamp again and held it just above a tiny fissure in
the rock. It was at once extinguished.

"What is it?" said Bainbridge, panting with excitement.

"Something that nearly finished _me_," I replied. "Why, this is a
natural escape of choke damp. Carbonic acid gas--the deadliest gas
imaginable, because it gives no warning of its presence, and it has no
smell. It must have collected here during the hours of the night when no
train was passing, and gradually rising put out the signal light. The
constant rushing of the trains through the cutting all day would
temporarily disperse it."

As I made this explanation Bainbridge stood like one electrified, while
a curious expression of mingled relief and horror swept over Henderson's
face.

"An escape of carbonic acid gas is not an uncommon phenomenon in
volcanic districts," I continued, "as I take this to be; but it is odd
what should have started it. It has sometimes been known to follow
earthquake shocks, when there is a profound disturbance of the deep
strata."

"It is strange that you should have said that," said Bainbridge, when he
could find his voice.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that about the earthquake. Don't you remember, Henderson," he
added, turning to the Inspector, "we had felt a slight shock all over
South Wales about three weeks back?"

"Then that, I think, explains it," I said. "It is evident that Pritchard
really did climb the rocks in a frantic attempt to escape from the gas
and fell back on to these boulders. The other man was cut down at once,
before he had time to fly."

"But what is to happen now?" asked Bainbridge. "Will it go on for ever?
How are we to stop it?"

"The fissure ought to be drenched with lime water, and then filled up;
but all really depends on what is the size of the supply and also the
depth. It is an extremely heavy gas, and would lie at the bottom of a
cutting like water. I think there is more here just now than is good for
us," I added.

"But how," continued Bainbridge, as we moved a few steps from the fatal
spot, "do you account for the interval between the first death and the
second?"

"The escape must have been intermittent. If wind blew down the cutting,
as probably was the case before this frost set in, it would keep the gas
so diluted that its effects would not be noticed. There was enough down
here this morning, before that train came through, to poison an army.
Indeed, if it had not been for Henderson's promptitude, there would have
been another inquest--on myself."

I then related my own experience.

"Well, this clears Wynne, without doubt," said Bainbridge; "but alas!
for the two poor fellows who were victims. Bell, the Lytton Vale
Railway Company owe you unlimited thanks; you have doubtless saved many
lives, and also the Company, for the line must have been closed if you
had not made your valuable discovery. But now come home with me to
breakfast. We can discuss all those matters later on."