Free The Secret Tunnel by James Lear

checking the lay of the land. This intrigued me, and I concealed myself inside an empty carriage.
    The door opened again, and the diamond merchant stepped out—followed by the young father from the dining car. They muttered something to each other and walked away in opposite directions.
    I stepped out of my hiding place, feigning complete surprise when I collided with the diamond merchant.
    “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
    He practically jumped out of his skin. “Jesus!”
    “I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
    He calmed down immediately. “That’s quite all right. You just… I was… I apologize.”
    What had been going on in that bathroom? Was the diamond dealer in fact a diamond smuggler? It was too much to hope that, as Bertrand had mockingly said, every single man on the Flying Scotsman was queer—and besides, the young father was married. But then again, as Vince frequently said, so was Oscar Wilde. No, it was a transaction of a different sort that had been going on, surely. I remembered how the young father had glowered at the diamond merchant in the dining car. Obviously they had arranged to meet on the train, and they were trying to maintain a discreet distance in order to avoid suspicion. Now, despite their plans, I had caught them in the act. Not the act I would like to have caught them in—the contrast between the diamond merchant’s dark hair and the young father’s blond coloring was enough to get me interested—but something that appealed to my appetite for mystery and detection. Where
there were diamonds involved, there was almost bound to be trouble.
    “Very unusual to stop at York, isn’t it?” I said. I wasn’t going to let him go just yet, and played the part of the garrulous American traveler.
    “Yes, very unusual. I suppose there was some problem on the line.” I tried to place his accent; it was definitely English, but there was a slight twang in there. South African, as Frankie had suggested? I knew the diamond business was big there. Or Australian? Definitely not American, nor Scottish, but there my certainty stopped.
    “Looks like we’re coming in for some heavy weather,” I said. This was an understatement; the light was failing fast, and sleet was rattling against the windows.
    “Yes. I hope it doesn’t mean delays…” He scowled, his dark eyebrows joining in the middle.
    “You got an appointment to keep in London?”
    “What? Oh, yes, of course.”
    “And what line of business might you be in, if you don’t mind me asking?” This was the sort of question an Englishman would never ask, at least not on such casual acquaintance, but we Americans were, it seemed, a byword for impertinence.
    “Oh… International trade. Buying and selling. Import-export.” I suppose one doesn’t just say “I’m a diamond dealer” to a complete stranger.
    “That’s a mighty fine ring you’re wearing, if I may say so.” He was gripping the handrail by the window, his knuckles white, his large hand bunching into a fist. Despite his manners, it was easy to see that he was eager to get away from me. The ring—that thick gold band with the single, deep-set sparkler—looked like a brass knuckle.
    “Thank you.” He quickly moved his hand, stuck it in his pocket.
    “An engagement ring?”

    “What?” He was starting to sound annoyed. “No. Nothing of the sort.”
    “I’m glad to hear it.”
    “Are you?” he replied. “Well. If you will excuse me, Mr.…er…”
    I extended a hand. “Mitchell. Dr. Edward Mitchell, of Boston and Edinburgh, at your service.”
    “A medical doctor?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    We shook. The thick gold band dug into my fingers.
    “And you are…?”
    “Rhys. David Rhys.” He seemed less unfriendly now that he knew I was a medical man.
    “Rhys. That would be… No, don’t tell me. Oh, darn it. Is it—”
    “Welsh. It’s Welsh. I’m Welsh.”
    “Of course. I’ve been trying to place the accent.”
    He smiled for the first time; the