A Royal Wrong by Fred M. White

Hugh Childers stood on the open gangway of the railway car with the wind streaming upon him. It was not too warm for the time of year; the motion of the train set up a rushing breeze, but his face was damp with sweat and his limbs were moist as he peered into the darkness, anxiety shaking him from head to foot.

Had he been successful? Had the carefully-planned scheme ended in triumph? Or, on the other hand, was it possible that disaster had overtaken it? But this thought was too painful to dwell upon. He put it from him as a thing to be relegated to forgetfulness. He did not see how he could fail. If he had, then he would know no happiness again. If his plan had miscarried, he would have blood on his hands. And whose blood? Childers reeled as he thought of it. He stood glaring into the darkness as if looking for something in the rear of the train, where were pools and marshes reflecting the stars in the clear depths. Leaning over the side of the car, Childers saw the smooth water between the sleepers. The train seemed to have travelled miles in the last few seconds.