“You’re Mr. Drigg, aren’t you, sir?” he asked before the other could protest. “I saw you here when they cut’t‘tape and at other official functions of t’line.”

“If you please.”

The thick-chewed arm still prevented his entrance and there seemed little he could do to move it.

“You wouldn’t know me, but I’m Fighting Jack, Captain Washington’s head ganger, and if it’s the captain you want’t‘see he’s not here.”

“I do want to see him and it is a matter of some urgency.”

“That’ll be tonight then, after shift. Captain’s up’t‘the face. No visitors. If you’ve messages in that bag, I’ll bring ’em up for you.”

“Impossible, I must deliver this in person.” Drigg took a key from his waistcoat pocket and turned it in the lock of the portfolio then reached inside. There was a single linen envelope there and he withdrew it just enough for the other to see the golden crest on the flap. Fighting Jack dropped his arm.

“The marquis?”

“None other.” Drigg could not keep a certain smug satisfaction from his voice.

“Well, come along then. You’ll have to wear overalls, it’s mucky up’t‘face.”

“The message must be delivered.”

There was a work train waiting for the head ganger, a stubby electric engine drawing a single open car with boxes of supplies. It pulled out as soon as they were aboard and they rode the footplate behind the engineer. The track passed the town, cut through the fields, then dived into a black tunnel where the only light was a weak glow from the illuminated dials so that Drigg had to clutch for support fearful that he would be tossed out into the jolting darkness. Then they were in the sunshine again and slowing down as they moved towards a second tunnel mouth. It was far grander than the other with a facing of hewn granite blocks and marble pillars that supported a great lintel that had been done in the Doric style. This was deeply carved with the words that still brought a certain catch to Drigg’s throat, even after all his years with the company.