But that's the whole
mystery. If _I_ get smashed by accident, there's no reason on earth
why Cyril shouldn't run on for years yet as usual; and if Cyril got
smashed, there's no reason on earth why I should ever know anything
about it except from the newspapers."
CHAPTER IV.
INSIDE THE TUNNEL.
And, indeed, if brain-waves had been in question at all, they
ought, without a doubt, to have informed Guy Waring that at the
very moment when he was going out to send off his telegram, his
brother Cyril was sitting disconsolate, with dark blue lips and
swollen eyelids, on the footboard of the railway carriage in the
Lavington tunnel. Cyril was worn out with digging by this time,
for he had done his best once more to clear away the sand towards
the front of the train in the vague hope that he might succeed in
letting in a little more air to their narrow prison through the
chinks and interstices of the fallen sandstone. Besides, a man in
an emergency must do something, if only to justify his claim to
manliness--especially when a lady is looking on at his efforts.
So Cyril Waring had toiled and moiled in that deadly atmosphere for
some hours in vain, and now sat, wearied out and faint from foul
vapours, by Elma's side on the damp, cold footboard.
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