"Very well," he said. He seized a pen and wrote with a steady hand. "There," he said presently, "will that do?"
"Yes, that'll do perfectly. And believe me, Mr. Leicester, I am as sorry as any man. And you'll forgive me, but my advice to you is, get out of the town as quickly as you can. But don't leave by the Taviton Station. There'll be a crowd there to watch every train, and that crowd means to mob you."
"I'll see about that," said Leicester, his eyes flashing.
"Don't go to Taviton Station, Mr. Leicester. No doubt you could have the law on them afterwards; but it's no use fighting the rabble. They think you've lost them the election. My advice is, get a cab up quietly, and drive to West Billington, a little wayside station five miles away. From there you can get to London without coming through Taviton at all. I am awfully sorry, Mr. Leicester, but I am sure you understand my position."
Leicester wanted to shout in his anger—he longed to pour curses upon his visitor, upon the town, the election, upon every one. But he controlled himself.
"Good-morning," he said.
Mr. Grayburn held out his hand, but Leicester would not see it. When he had gone, he closed the door behind him, and sat down to think. His breakfast was untouched, a number of letters which lay on the table before him were unopened. What should he do? He did not notice the waiter who came to remove the breakfast which he had not eaten; he sat with closed eyes, thinking and brooding.
Presently he picked up a Bradshaw, and began to study it. Now and again he would lift his eyes and stare into vacancy, then he would turn eagerly to the time-table again, not to study the trains so much as the map of the various railway lines.
About midday he rang for some sandwiches, and asked the waiter to send the proprietor to him.
"I'm sorry for what has taken place, Mr. Leicester," that gentleman said when he came.