"When is the next train to Channor?" demanded Shorely of a porter.

"Just left, sir."

"The next train hasn't just left, you fool. Answer my question."

"Two hours and twenty minutes, sir," replied the porter, in a huff.

Shorely thought of engaging a special, but realised he hadn't money
enough. Perhaps he could telegraph and warn the people of Channor
Chase, but he did not know to whom to telegraph. Or, again, he thought
he might have Gibberts arrested on some charge or other at Channor
Station. That, he concluded, was the way out--dangerous, but feasible.

By this time, however, the porter had recovered his equanimity. Porters
cannot afford to cherish resentment, and this particular porter saw
half a crown in the air.

"Did you wish to reach Channor before the train that's just gone, sir?"

"Yes. Can it be done?"

"It might be done, sir," said the porter, hesitatingly, as if he were
on the verge of divulging a State secret which would cost him his
situation. He wanted the half-crown to become visible before he
committed himself further.

"Here's half a sovereign, if you tell me how it can be done, short of
hiring a special."