This was all Mr. Carter wanted to know.
"You get a fresh horse harnessed in double-quick time," he said, "and drive me to Shorncliffe station."
While the horse and fly were being got ready, the detective went into the bar, and ordered a glass of steaming brandy-and-water. He was accustomed to take liquids in a boiling state, as the greater part of his existence was spent in hurrying from place to place, as he was hurrying now.
"Sawney's got the chance this time," he thought. "Suppose he was to sell me, and go in for the reward?"
The supposition was not a pleasant one, and Mr. Carter looked grave for a minute or so; but he quickly relapsed into a grim smile.
"I think Sawney knows me too well for that," he said; "I think Sawney is too well acquainted with me to try that on."
The fly came round to the inn-door while Mr. Carter reflected upon this. He sprang into the vehicle, and was driven off to the station.
At the Shorncliffe station he found everything very quiet. There was no train due for some time yet; there was no sign of human life in the ticket-office or the waiting-rooms.
There was a porter asleep upon his truck on the platform, and there was one solitary young female sitting upon a bench against the wall, with her boxes and bundles gathered round her, and an umbrella and a pair of clogs on her lap.
Upon all the length of the platform there was no sign of Mr. Tibbles, otherwise Sawney Tom.