Mr Whitworth blew his nose and inspected his handkerchief closely. ‘Mr Browne answered the President’s call to arms at once,’ he said. ‘He went straight to Washington to join the Army of the Potomac, and they made him a lieutenant. So they tell me, anyway. I was only employed to take care of him, out of the proceeds of his private income, and his estates.’

‘What happened?’ asked Collis.

‘What happens to any of them? If they’re lucky, they die right away. He was wounded at Manassas Junction, after Bull Run. A Confederate shell landed close by, and took half of his head off. I don’t even know if he understands English anymore. He never speaks.’

Collis waited for a few minutes. Then he said to Mr Whitworth, ‘I guess there’s no point in my staying here.’

‘Not really,’ said Mr Whitworth.

Collis rubbed his eyes. He felt as if he hadn’t slept for a week. He left the living-room, with Mr Whitworth following a short distance behind, and let himself out of the front door.

‘There’s enough money, is there?’ he asked Mr Whitworth.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Whitworth. ‘The doctor doesn’t expect him to last longer than six or seven months, and there’s plenty.’

Collis reached into the pocket of his coat and handed Mr Whitworth a card. ‘That’s my address in California,’ he said. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d write me when he dies.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Whitworth.

Collis walked down the steps and across to his cab, which was waiting for him at the kerb. It was one of those warm, strange afternoons when you feel as if you’ve somehow stepped through the wrong door, and the whole world has altered without your knowing it. He looked back at Mr Whitworth, and for some reason Mr Whitworth was waving.

Collis and Theodore spent the next three days trying to raise money for the Sierra Pacific Railroad Company. They spent hours in echoing bank offices on Wall Street, waiting for bank presidents to finish their lunches and talk about finance. They talked to brokers, investors, adventurers, and gamblers. They talked to engineers and steelmakers. They talked to anybody who would listen.

Towards the end of their first week in New York, they knew what they were up against — indifference, caution, and sheer disbelief. Many investors simply wouldn’t believe that a transcontinental railroad could be built; or that, if it could, that anybody would want to ride on it. Others frowned and asked them to come back when the war was over. Still more just blinked at them over their desks and shrugged.

One bank president told them fiercely that he had once travelled by express train, and that at forty miles per hour it had been impossible to read, or think, or hear himself speak. Even when Collis assured him that Sierra Pacific trains would travel at twenty-five miles per hour at the very most, he firmly repeated that men were intended to travel on foot, or on horseback, but certainly not by steam locomotive.