He stuck his head down to the pigeonhole from which sixpenny excursion tickets are doled out at English railway stations with more grudging condescension than thousand-pound notes are passed out at the Bank of England.
"That young lady who was here just before your last customer," he said. "Where did she want to go to?"
Fortunately the clerk had a long memory.
"Anford, sir."
"Give me a ticket there — first class."
Simon slid money under the grille and turned away, grabbing up his ticket. He shoved past the gaping queue and collared a porter who was mooning by.
"Which is the next train to Anford, and where does it go from?" he snapped.
"Anford, sir?"
"Yes. Anford."
"Anford," said the porter, digesting the name. "Anford."