However, there was no conveyance of any kind outside the station. One
sleepy porter had already departed, and the other one, who took Bell's
ticket, and was obviously waiting to lock up, deposed that a carriage
from the castle had come to the station, but that some clerical gentleman
had come along and countermanded it. Whereupon the dog-cart had departed.
"Very strange," Bell muttered. "What sort of a parson was it?"
"I only just saw his face," the porter yawned. "Dressed in black, with a
white tie and a straw hat. Walked in a slouching kind of way with his
hands down; new curate from St. Albans, perhaps. Looked like a chap as
could take care of himself in a row."
"Thanks," Bell said, curtly. "I'll manage the walk; it's only two miles.
Good-night."
Bell's face was grim and set as he stepped out into the road. He knew
fairly well what this meant. It was pretty evident that his arch-enemy
knew his movements perfectly well, and that a vigorous attempt was being
made to prevent him reaching the castle. He called back to the porter.
"How long since the carriage went?" he asked.
A voice from the darkness said "Ten minutes," and Bell trudged on with
the knowledge that one of his enemies at least was close at hand.
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