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.
“I want to get to Mowern Junction before the four-twenty train from here goes on to Abbeylands. Can I do it?” said Harold.
“Next train to the Junction five-thirty-two, sir,” said the official.
“That’s too late for me,” said Harold. “The train leaves the Junction for Abbeylands a quarter of an hour after arriving at Mowern. Is there no local train that I might manage to catch that would bring me to the Junction?”
“None that would serve your purpose, sir.”
Harold clearly saw how it was that this company could never get their dividend over four per cent.
“Why is there so long a wait at Mowern?” he asked.
“Waits for Ditchford Mail, sir.”