"No bones broken?" he persisted.
"None whatever. What happened?"
Trafford was peering thoughtfully at the track.
"Curling-stones," he answered laconically. "When we enfiladed Saunders' trench we sent Major Flannel's stones on a long journey—but not long enough, it appears. There has been a small avalanche of snow across the track, due, I presume, to the vibration of the guns. This held the stones up in the middle of the fair-way. We might have ploughed through the snow, but the granite smashed us."
"What's to be done?" asked the Princess after a pause.
Trafford stepped over the snow-bank and examined the "bob." The runners were twisted and half wrenched from the wooden framework. The steering-wheel was jammed, and refused to respond to the most strenuous efforts; the brake-lever was snapped off short.
"The midnight express doesn't run any further," he said.
"What on earth are we to do?"
He answered her question with another.
"How's Karl?"