"I suppose you didn't notice where he told the man to drive?"
"Yes, sir; it was Euston-square."
"Ah! Euston-square. I'll go there, then, on the chance of catching him," said Mr. Sheldon.
He bestowed a donation upon the domestic, reentered his hansom, and told the man to drive to Euston-square "like a shot."
"So! His destination is Dorking, and he goes from Euston-square!" muttered Mr. Sheldon, in sombre meditation, as the hansom rattled and rushed, and jingled and jolted, over the stones. "There's something under the cards here."
Arrived at the great terminus, the stockbroker made his way to the down platform. There was a lull in the day's traffic, and only a few listless wretches lounging disconsolately here and there, with eyes ever and anon lifted to the clock. Amongst these there was no Valentine Hawkehurst.
Mr. Sheldon peered into all the waiting-rooms, and surveyed the refreshment-counter; but there was still no sign of the man he sought. He went back to the ticket-office; but here again all was desolate, the shutters of the pigeon-holes hermetically closed, and no vestige of Valentine Hawkehurst.
The stockbroker was disappointed, but not defeated. He returned to the platform, looked about him for a few moments, and then addressed himself to a porter of intelligent aspect.
"What trains have left here within the last half-hour?" he asked.
"Only one, sir; the 2.15 down, for Manchester."