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Updated: June 18, 2025
It came punctually, and I at once recognized the ruddy-faced guard who had gone down with my train the evening before. "The gentlemen want to ask you something about Mr. Dwerrihouse, Somers," said the station-master, by way of introduction. The guard flashed a keen glance from my face to Jelf's, and back again to mine. "Mr. John Dwerrihouse, the late director?" said he, interrogatively.
"Because," replied Captain Prendergast, dropping his voice to the lowest whisper, "because John Dwerrihouse absconded three months ago, with seventy-five thousand pounds of the company's money, and has never been heard of since." John Dwerrihouse had absconded three months ago, and I had seen him only a few hours back.
Dwerrihouse then went on to tell of the opposition he had encountered and the obstacles he had overcome in the cause of the Stockbridge branch. I was entertained with a multitude of local details and local grievances.
Dwerrihouse was universally believed to have absconded with the money, no one knew how or whither. Whether he meant murder or not, however, Mr. Augustus Raikes paid the full penalty of his crime, and was hanged at the Old Bailey in the second week in January, 1857.
"And yet," pursued my friend, "a gentleman who travelled down yesterday from London to Clayborough by the afternoon express testifies that he saw Mr. Dwerrihouse in the train, and that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater station." "Quite impossible, sir," replied the station-master, promptly. "Why impossible?"
"And yet," pursued my friend, "a gentleman who travelled down yesterday from London to Clayborough by the afternoon express testifies that he saw Mr. Dwerrihouse in the train, and that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater station." "Quite impossible, sir," replied the station-master promptly. "Why impossible?"
It came punctually, and I at once recognised the ruddy-faced guard who had gone down with my train the evening before. "The gentlemen want to ask you something about Mr. Dwerrihouse, Somers," said the station-master, by way of introduction. The guard flashed a keen glance from my face to Jelf's and back again to mine. "Mr. John Dwerrihouse, the late director?" said he, interrogatively.
I explained that I had been for some months away from England, and had therefore heard nothing of the contemplated improvement. Mr. Dwerrihouse smiled complacently. "It will be an improvement," he said, "a great improvement. Stockbridge is a flourishing town, and needs but a more direct railway communication with the metropolis to become an important centre of commerce.
Dwerrihouse had made disagreeable experience, but a pretty little bachelor's chamber, hung with a delicate chintz, and made cheerful by a blazing fire. I unlocked my portmanteau. I tried to be expeditious; but the memory of my railway adventure haunted me. I could not get free of it. I could not shake it off.
Why, sir," he added, dropping his voice so as to be inaudible to the station-master, who had been called away to speak to some person close by, "you expressly asked me to give you a compartment to yourself, and I did so. I locked you in, and you were so good as to give me something for myself." "Yes; but Mr. Dwerrihouse had a key of his own."
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