"I'll do my best, sir, but we ought to have a good half-hour."
The driver did his best, and landed Shorely on the departure platform
two minutes after the train had gone.
"When is the next train to Channor?" demanded Shorely of a porter.
"Just left, sir."
"The next train hasn't just left, you fool. Answer my question."
"Two hours and twenty minutes, sir," replied the porter, in a huff.
Shorely thought of engaging a special, but realised he hadn't money
enough. Perhaps he could telegraph and warn the people of Channor
Chase, but he did not know to whom to telegraph. Or, again, he thought
he might have Gibberts arrested on some charge or other at Channor
Station. That, he concluded, was the way out--dangerous, but feasible.
By this time, however, the porter had recovered his equanimity. Porters
cannot afford to cherish resentment, and this particular porter saw
half a crown in the air.
"Did you wish to reach Channor before the train that's just gone, sir?"
"Yes. Can it be done?"
"It might be done, sir," said the porter, hesitatingly, as if he were
on the verge of divulging a State secret which would cost him his
situation. He wanted the half-crown to become visible before he
committed himself further.
"Here's half a sovereign, if you tell me how it can be done, short of
hiring a special."
"Well, sir, you could take the express that leaves at the half-hour. It
will carry you fifteen miles beyond Channor, to Buley Junction, then in
seventeen minutes you can get a local back to Channor, which is due
three minutes before the down train reaches there--if the local is in
time," he added, when the gold piece was safe stowed in his pocket.
While waiting for the express, Shorely bought a copy of the
_Sponge_, and once more he read Gibberts' story on the way down.
The third reading appalled him. He was amazed he had not noticed before
the deadly earnestness of its tone. We are apt to underrate or overrate
the work of a man with whom we are personally familiar.
Now, for the first time, Shorely seemed to get the proper perspective.
The reading left him in a state of nervous collapse. He tried to
remember whether or not he had burned Gibberts' letter. If he had left
it on his table, anything might happen. It was incriminating evidence.
The local was five minutes late at the Junction, and it crawled over
the fifteen miles back to Channor in the most exasperating way, losing
time with every mile. At Channor he found the London train had come and
gone.
"Did a man in a long ulster get off, and----"
"For Channor Chase, sir?"
"Yes. Has he gone?"
"Oh yes, sir! The dog-cart from the Chase was here to meet him, sir."
"How far is it?"
"About five miles by road, if you mean the Chase, sir."
"Can I get a conveyance?"
"I don't think so, sir. They didn't know you were coming, I suppose, or
they would have waited; but if you take the road down by the church,
you can get there before the cart, sir. It isn't more than two miles
from the church. You'll find the path a bit dirty, I'm afraid, sir, but
not worse than the road. You can't miss the way, and you can send for
your luggage."
It had been raining, and was still drizzling. A strange path is
sometimes difficult to follow, even in broad daylight, but a wet, dark
evening adds tremendously to the problem. Shorely was a city man, and
quite unused to the eccentricities of country lanes and paths.
He first mistook the gleaming surface of a ditch for the footpath, and
only found his mistake when he was up to his waist in water. The rain
came on heavily again, and added to his troubles. After wandering
through muddy fields for some time, he came to a cottage, where he
succeeded in securing a guide to Channor Chase.
The time he had lost wandering in the fields would, Shorely thought,
allow the dog-cart to arrive before him, and such he found to be the
case. The man who answered Shorely's imperious summons to the door was
surprised to find a wild-eyed, unkempt, bedraggled individual, who
looked like a lunatic or a tramp.
"Has Mr. Bromley Gibberts arrived yet?" he asked, without preliminary
talk.
"Yes, sir," answered the man.
"Is he in his room?"
"No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing-
room.
"I must see him at once," gasped Shorely. "It is a matter of life and
death. Take me to the drawing-room."
The man, in some bewilderment, led him to the door of the drawing-room,
and Shorely heard the sound of laughter from within. Thus ever are
comedy and tragedy mingled. The man threw the door open, and Shorely
entered. The sight he beheld at first dazzled him, for the room was
brilliantly lighted. He saw a number of people, ladies and gentlemen,
all in evening dress, and all looking towards the door, with
astonishment in their eyes. Several of them, he noticed, had copies of
the _Sponge_ in their hands. Bromley Gibberts stood before the
fire, and was very evidently interrupted in the middle of a narration.
"I assure you," he was saying, "that is the only way by which a story
of the highest class can be sold to a London editor."
He stopped as he said this, and turned to look at the intruder. It was
a moment or two before he recognised the dapper editor in the
bedraggled individual who stood, abashed, at the door.
"By the gods!" he exclaimed, waving his hands. "Speak of the editor,
and he appears. In the name of all that's wonderful, Shorely, how did
you come here? Have your deeds at last found you out? Have they ducked
you in a horse-pond? I have just been telling my friends here how I
sold you that story, which is making the fortune of the _Sponge_.
Come forward, and show yourself, Shorely, my boy."
"I would like a word with you," stammered Shorely.
"Then, have it here," said the novelist. "They all understand the
circumstances. Come and tell them your side of the story."
"I warn you," said Shorely, pulling himself together, and addressing
the company, "that this man contemplates a dreadful crime, and I have
come here to prevent it."
Gibberts threw back his head, and laughed loudly.
"Search me," he cried. "I am entirely unarmed, and, as every one here
knows, among my best friends."
"Goodness!" said one old lady. "You don't mean to say that Channor
Chase is the scene of your story, and where the tragedy was to take
place?"
"Of course it is," cried Gibberts, gleefully. "Didn't you recognise the
local colour? I thought I described Channor Chase down to the ground,
and did I not tell you you were all my victims? I always forget some
important detail when telling a story. Don't go yet," he said, as
Shorely turned away; "but tell your story, then we will have each man's
narrative, after the style of Wilkie Collins."
But Shorely had had enough, and, in spite of pressing invitations to
remain, he departed out into the night, cursing the eccentricities of
literary men.