“Good God! the Ring! the Ring!”
He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It pointed to four-seventeen.
He pulled out his watch. It pointed to four-twenty-two.
He rushed to the sofa where an overcoat was lying. He had it on him in a moment. He snatched up a railway guide and stuffed it into his pocket.
In another minute he was in a hansom, driving as fast as the hansomeer thought consistent with public safety—a trifle over that which the police authorities thought consistent with public safety—in the direction of the Northern Railway terminus.
CHAPTER XLII.—ON THE RING AND THE LOOK.
HE tried, while in the hansom, to unravel the mysteries of the system by which passengers were supposed to reach Brackenshire. He found the four-twenty train from London indicated in its proper order. This was the train by which he had invariably travelled to Abbeylands—it was the last train in the day that carried passengers to Abbeylands Station, for the station was on a short branch line, the junction being Mowern.
On reaching the terminus he lost no time in finding a responsible official—one whose chastely-braided uniform looked repressful of tips.