“I know, but I did not see her. I see nothing. I am blind.”
“Blind!” exclaimed the old fellow, sitting up in startled wonderment. “You mean it, sir? You walk all right and you look at me as if you saw me. You’re kidding surely.”
“No,” smiled Carrados. “It’s quite right.”
“Then it’s a funny business, sir—you what are blind expecting to find something that those with their eyes couldn’t,” ruminated Hutchins sagely.
“There are things that you can’t see with your eyes, Hutchins.”
“Perhaps you are right, sir. Well, what is it you want to know?”
“Light a cigar first,” said the blind man, holding out his case and waiting until the various sounds told him that his host was smoking contentedly. “The train you were driving at the time of the accident was the six-twenty-seven from Notcliff. It stopped everywhere until it reached Lambeth Bridge, the chief London station of your line. There it became something of an express, and leaving Lambeth Bridge at seven-eleven, should not stop again until it fetched Swanstead on Thames, eleven miles out, at seven-thirty-four. Then it stopped on and off from Swanstead to Ingerfield, the terminus of that branch, which it reached at eight-five.”
Hutchins nodded, and then, remembering, said: “That’s right, sir.”
“That was your business all day—running between Notcliff and Ingerfield?”
“Yes, sir. Three journeys up and three down mostly.”