The train began to move. Before it gathered much speed it was running through the station. Suddenly Entwistle was all attention, for standing on the opposite platform was "his man"—the soi-disant Captain Fennelburt.
Entwistle recognised him at once, in spite of the fact that he wore civilian clothes. He was evidently waiting for a train bound south.
For a brief instant the Secret Service man deliberated on the chance of being able to leap from the train. He would have cheerfully run the risk of violating the Company's rules and regulations, but there are limits to personal activity. He would not have hesitated to jump, for he possessed more than a moderate amount of courage; but prudence predominated. It would be of little use to find himself stranded at Galashiels with a broken limb, he argued; but there was the communication-cord.
Even as he pulled the chain that gave the alarm in the guard's van, greatly to the surprise of his fellow passengers, another train thundered past. There was not a moment to lose.
"What's wrong, sir?" inquired eight or nine curious voices. "Are you ill?"
Without replying, Entwistle grasped his bag and stick, went into the corridor, and began to make his way towards the guard's van. The train showed no signs of slowing down. Already it must have run a couple of miles beyond Galashiels.
Presently the vacuum brakes were put in action, and with a peculiar sensation, akin to the rapid stopping of a lift, the train drew up.
"Guard!" exclaimed Entwistle peremptorily, as the uniformed official attempted to hurry past him in the narrow corridor. "I pulled the communication-cord."
"What for, sir?"
Entwistle produced a card from his pocket and explained matters. By this time another two precious minutes had passed.