If anything, he reminded himself, and bent again over the station’s daybook. It was his turn to review the week’s events, to be sure nothing had slipped through their fingers, but he was finding it almost impossible to concentrate on the matters at hand. He made a last note that someone should follow up with the managers of the Gallenon about the complaint of spoiled wine, and finally closed the book with a thump, calling for a runner to return it to the duty point. The Bells’ clock struck six, followed more faintly by the clock at the Bridge-tower; the races had been over for more than an hour, and there was still no sign of Eslingen. He shook his unease away. Possibly Eslingen had found something, and was pursuing it; more likely, he’d fallen into company with some of his fellow owners, and was either celebrating victories or commiserating over losses, with the help of a bottle or two of wine… And if that was the case, he told himself sternly, there was no harm done, but he knew he wouldn’t feel entirely comfortable until he knew Eslingen was safe.
