"Hallo!" said the landlord, "there's been a man here for you. Come from Mrs. Early, he said."
"Ah!" said George, surprised; "where is he? I must see him at once."
"I told him you went to the post-office," said the landlord; "he was a rough-looking customer, and very disrespectful. I thought he'd come begging, perhaps."
"He's a scoundrel," said George, indignantly; "I expect the lazy brute won't come back. I must go after him at once; how long has he been gone?"
"Quarter of an hour," said the landlord; "I hope I didn't do wrong in——"
"That's all right," said George; "who's trap is that outside?"
"That's my trap, sir," said the landlord. "If you'd like to——"
"I'll borrow it," said George, "and go after him." He ran out, and jumped into the trap. In another minute he was driving off full speed to the station.
"Here, hi!" yelled the landlord, rushing out "He's going the wrong way. That ain't the way to the post-office. Hi! Jim, run after him—quick! Tell him——"
George heard the shouts, but drove straight ahead. He did the three miles in twenty minutes, and reached the station just as a train steamed out. It was a down train, but George would have boarded it promptly if he could have done so; any escape was better than none. He stood on the platform cursing his luck, when a familiar voice fell on his ear. He darted into the waiting-room, and peered through the window. What he saw did not add anything to the joy of his position, rather the reverse. Two men were wrangling with a porter; one was Parrott, the other Busby.