He explored his pocket for the paper ball which he had rescued from the wastebasket, and unrolled it carefully. It proved to be nothing but the Sunday section of a local timetable, with a pencilled arrow marking Rockliffe station on the Hudson. His watch said 4:30; there was a train for Rockliffe at 5:03, arriving at 5:46. He entered a booth, made a telephone call, and then dashed from the store and hailed a taxi. He was at the Grand Central in time to check his parcel of books at the package office. Harold joined him at the gate one minute before the train left. The sergeant wore his trousers tucked into his high boots, and carried a pair of obsolete galoshes under his arm. He said, as they walked down the ramp: “These things nearly lost me the train. Where are we going to, and why are we dressing up like Eskimos?” “Rockliffe. That’s the station for Fenbrook, and Fenbrook is up on top of a hill—and what a hill! I don’t believe the snowploughs make it.”
