The Illustrious Prince | Page 8

he dead?" the station-master asked.
"Stone-dead!" was the brief answer.
"Good God!" the station-master muttered. "Good God!"
The doctor had thrown his handkerchief over the dead man's face. He
was standing now looking at him thoughtfully.
"Did he die in his sleep, I wonder?" the station-master asked. "It must
have been horribly sudden! Was it heart disease?"
The doctor did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be thinking out
some problem.
"The body had better be removed to the station mortuary," he said at
last. "Then, if I were you, I should have the saloon shunted on to a
siding and left absolutely untouched. You had better place two of your
station police in charge while you telephone to Scotland Yard."
"To Scotland Yard?" the station-master exclaimed.
The doctor nodded. He looked around as though to be sure that none of
that anxious crowd outside could overhear.
"There's no question of heart disease here," he explained. "The man has
been murdered!"
The station-master was horrified,--horrified and blankly incredulous.
"Murdered!" he repeated. "Why, it's impossible! There was no one else
on the train except the attendant--not a single other person. All my
advices said one passenger only."
The doctor touched the man's coat with his finger, and the
station-master saw what he had not seen before,--saw what made him

turn away, a little sick. He was a strong man, but he was not used to
this sort of thing, and he had barely recovered yet from the first shock
of finding himself face to face with a dead man. Outside, the crowd
upon the platform was growing larger. White faces were being pressed
against the windows at the lower end of the saloon.
"There is no question about the man having been murdered," the doctor
said, and even his voice shook a little. "His own hand could never have
driven that knife home. I can tell you, even, how it was done. The man
who stabbed him was in the compartment behind there, leaned over,
and drove this thing down, just missing the shoulder. There was no
struggle or fight of any sort. It was a diabolical deed!"
"Diabolical indeed!" the station-master echoed hoarsely.
"You had better give orders for us to be shunted down on to a siding
just as we are," the doctor continued, "and send one of your men to
telephone to Scotland Yard. Perhaps it would be as well, too, not to
touch those papers until some one comes. See that the attendant does
not go home, or the guard. They will probably be wanted to answer
questions."
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 thought 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