Rugby telephoned to Liverpool, and received very much the same answer as Crewe. Euston followed suit.
“Who’s this you’re sending up tonight?” the station-master asked. “Special’s at Willington now, come through without a stop. Is some one trying to make a record round the world?”
Liverpool was a little tired of answering questions, and more than a little tired of this mysterious client. The station-master at Euston, however, was a person to be treated with respect.
“His name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, sir,” was the reply. “That is all we know about him. They have been ringing us up all down the line, ever since the special left.”
“Hamilton Fynes,” Euston repeated. “Don’t know the name. Where did he come from?”
“Off the Lusitania, sir.”
“But we had a message three hours ago that the Lusitania was not landing her passengers until tomorrow morning,” Euston protested.
“They let our man off in a tug, sir,” was the reply.
“It went down the river to fetch him. The guvnor didn’t want to give him a special at this time of night, but he just handed him a note, and we made things hum up here. He was on his way in half an hour. We have had to upset the whole of the night traffic to let him through without a stop.”
Such a client was, at any rate, worth meeting. The station-master brushed his coat, put on his silk hat, and stepped out on to the platform.