He drove off at breakneck speed. It seemed miles and miles to London; no matter how much of the winding road he covered, it unfolded again before his eyes, and mercilessly again. He went straight to Charing Cross; he left the car in the yard and dashed in to inquire about trains; he searched a time-table; 12.59--3 o'clock--4.5 ... he looked up at the clock--three minutes past four now. Micky dashed across the big hall to a gate where a signboard said "Dover Express"; he had no ticket; he pushed by the protesting inspector; the guard was waving his flag; some one grabbed at Micky and missed as he flung himself breathless and panting into the last coach of the moving train. CHAPTER XXVII Micky sat for a few moments breathless and exhausted before he pulled himself together, and taking off his hat wiped his hot forehead. The train was gathering speed; he let down the window with a run and looked out; the station was out of sight altogether; they were crossing the bridge under which the silent Thames flowed sluggishly. A breath of cold air touched his hot face and he shivered suddenly and drew the window up once more. Something had driven his thoughts back to his first meeting with Esther, to the cold silence of the night, and the hard desperation of her voice as she said-- "I didn't mean to go home any more--I shouldn't have ever gone home again if I hadn't met you...." If she got to Paris before he saw her she would feel like this again. Micky groaned. Fortunately he had the carriage to himself, but it was a third-class compartment, and not a corridor carriage. He cursed his luck here; if there had been a corridor he could have gone the length of the train and seen if Esther were on it. As it was, he would have to wait till they reached Dover, and even then perhaps he would never find her. He tried to calm himself with the conviction that everything would be all right, but in his heart he was despairing; if he found Esther and brought her back she would hate him for the rest of his life. What had happened to make her rush off like this? He could not imagine. She had seemed so happy only that morning. What could account for the tragedy that seemed to breathe in every word of that little note she had left for June? He took it from his pocket and read it again. It gave no hint of what had prompted this sudden flight. He wrote out a couple of telegrams to dispatch from Dover--one for June, and another for Driver. He wished he had got Driver with him. There was a sort of security in the man's stolidness. He realised that he was without luggage, and that he had not much money. Supposing he had to go on to Paris, what the dickens was he going to do?