“In time for what? what can we do?”
“Try and get another remand, if only for a couple of days. I can’t believe it of Reg. There must be some mistake.”
“Of course there must,” said Horace, with a touch of scorn in his voice, “but how are we to prove it?”
“It’s no use trying just now. All we can do is to get a remand.”
The train seemed to drag forward with cruel slowness, and the precious moments sped by with no less cruel haste. It was five minutes past three when they found themselves on the platform of Liverpool station.
“It’s touch and go if we’re in time, old boy,” said Harker, as they took their seats in a hansom and ordered the man to drive hard for the police-court; “but you mustn’t give up hope even if we’re late. We’ll pull poor old Reg through somehow.”
His cheery words and the brotherly grip on his arm were like life and hope to Horace.
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “What would I have done if you hadn’t turned up like an angel of help, Harker, old man?”
As they neared the police-court the cabman pulled up to allow a police van to turn in the road. The two friends shuddered. It was like an evil omen to daunt them.
Was he in that van—so near them, yet so hopelessly beyond their reach?