He glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock,—can't—"
"There's no use urging the horses so; we can't make it."
"We may, mother, we may." He half rose as if he would leap from the vehicle. "I could go faster on foot. There's a quarter of an hour yet before the Liverpool express. John, can't we get on faster than this?"
"No, my lord. One of the 'orses has picked up a stone. If you'll 'old 'em I'll dig it out in 'alf a minute, my lord."
David sprang out and took the reins. "Where's the footman?" he asked testily.
"You left 'im behind, my lord. He was 'elping Lady Laura cut roses."
"David, this is useless. The last train from London went through an hour ago and we haven't ten minutes for the next. Order him to return and we'll consider calmly."
David laughed bitterly, and only sprang into the coach and shut the door with a crash. "Drive on, John," he shouted through the window, and again they were off at a mad gallop.
His mother turned and looked at him astounded. "Let me read what she has written you, my son," she implored, half frightened at his frenzy.
"It's of no use for you to read it. We can't talk now, not rationally."