Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at Gibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," and it was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock.
"Where's Gibberts?"
"He's just gone, sir."
"Gone where?"
"To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He's going into the country for a week, sir, and I wasn't to forward his letters, so I haven't his address."
"Have you an 'ABC'?"
"Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains in it, sir, before he left."
Shorely saw it was open at C, and, looking down the column to Channor, he found that a train left in about twenty minutes. Without a word, he dashed down the stairs again. The "man" did not seem astonished. Queer fish sometimes came to see his master.
"Can you get me to Euston Station in twenty minutes?"
The cabman shook his head, as he said—