“Eleven-five? I thought it was eleven,” said Gordon numbly.
“There’s plenty of time, sir.”
Still Gordon stood, motionless. For some extraordinary reason his mind had refused to function; he was wholly incapable of decision or movement. The engine of his faculties had gone cold and refused to start.
The mechanism of the request saved him.
“Yes, sir.”
The bag was taken from his unresisting hand. He followed the porter to the busy courtyard, pathetic in his helplessness.
“Where shall I tell him to go, sir?”
The porter stood invitingly, the cab door in his hand, a friendly smile on his face. He had not yet been tipped.
“Scotland,” said Gordon hollowly.