i moved to the stranger who was holding the lamp. he was in official uniform.

‘are you the guard of the 12.0 out from st pancras?’

‘i am.’

‘where’s your train? what’s happened?’

‘as for where it is, there it is, right in front of you, what’s left of it. as to what’s happened, why, we’re wrecked.’

‘what do you mean by you’re wrecked?’

‘some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and came running down the hill on top of us.’

‘how long ago was it?’

‘not ten minutes. i was just starting off down the road to the signal box, it’s a good two miles away, when i saw you coming. my god! i thought there was going to be another smash.’

‘much damage done?’

‘seems to me as if we’re all smashed up. as far as i can make out they’re matchboxed up in front. i feel as if i was all broken up inside of me. i’ve been in the service going on for thirty years, and this is the first accident i’ve been in.’

it was too dark to see the man’s face, but judging from his tone he was either crying or very near to it.

our guard turned and shouted back to our engine,

‘you’d better go back to the box and let ’em know!’

‘all right!’ came echoing back.

the special immediately commenced retreating, whistling continually as it went. all the country side must have heard the engine shrieking, and all who did hear must have understood that on the line something was seriously wrong.

the smashed train was all in darkness, the force of the collision had put out all the carriage lamps. here was a flickering candle, there the glimmer of a match, these were all the lights which shone upon the scene. people were piling up débris by the side of the line, for the purpose of making a fire,—more for illumination than for warmth.

many of the passengers had succeeded in freeing themselves, and were moving hither and thither about the line. but the majority appeared to be still imprisoned. the carriage doors were jammed. without the necessary tools it was impossible to open them. every step we took our ears were saluted by piteous cries. men, women, children, appealed to us for help.

‘open the door, sir!’ ‘in the name of god, sir, open the door!’

over and over again, in all sorts of tones, with all degrees of violence, the supplication was repeated.

the guards vainly endeavoured to appease the, in many cases, half-frenzied creatures.

‘all right, sir! if you’ll only wait a minute or two, madam! we can’t get the doors open without tools, a special train’s just started off to get them. if you’ll only have patience there’ll be plenty of help for everyone of you directly. you’ll be quite safe in there, if you’ll only keep still.’

but that was just what they found it most difficult to do—keep still!

in the front of the train all was chaos. the trucks which had done the mischief—there were afterwards shown to be six of them, together with two guards’ vans—appeared to have been laden with bags of portland cement. the bags had burst, and everything was covered with what seemed gritty dust. the air was full of the stuff, it got into our eyes, half blinding us. the engine of the express had turned a complete somersault. it vomited forth smoke, and steam, and flames,—every moment it seemed as if the woodwork of the carriages immediately behind and beneath would catch fire.

the front coaches were, as the guard had put it, ‘match-boxed.’ they were nothing but a heap of débris,—telescoped into one another in a state of apparently inextricable confusion. it was broad daylight before access was gained to what had once been the interiors. the condition of the first third-class compartment revealed an extraordinary state of things.

scattered all over it were pieces of what looked like partially burnt rags, and fragments of silk and linen. i have those fragments now. experts have assured me that they are actually neither of silk nor linen! but of some material—animal rather than vegetable—with which they are wholly unacquainted. on the cushions and woodwork—especially on the woodwork of the floor—were huge blotches,—stains of some sort. when first noticed they were damp, and gave out a most unpleasant smell. one of the pieces of woodwork is yet in my possession,—with the stain still on it. experts have pronounced upon it too,—with the result that opinions are divided. some maintain that the stain was produced by human blood, which had been subjected to a great heat, and, so to speak, parboiled. others declare that it is the blood of some wild animal,—possibly of some creature of the cat species. yet others affirm that it is not blood at all, but merely paint. while a fourth describes it as—i quote the written opinion which lies in front of me—‘caused apparently by a deposit of some sort of viscid matter, probably the excretion of some variety of lizard.’

in a corner of the carriage was the body of what seemed a young man costumed like a tramp. it was marjorie lindon.

so far as a most careful search revealed, that was all the compartment contained.