He was in a rage at not seeing Foker.

He wanted to see Foker.

He must see Foker.
"Suppose I go on--on the Chatteris road, just to see if I can meet him," Pen thought.

Rebecca was saddled in another half hour, and galloping on the grass by the Chatteris road.

About four miles from Baymouth, the Clavering road branches off, as everybody knows, and the mare naturally was for taking that turn, but, cutting her over the shoulder, Pen passed the turning, and rode on to the turnpike without seeing any sign of the black tandem and red wheels.
As he was at the turnpike he might as well go on: that was quite clear.
So Pen rode to the George, and the hostler told him that Mr.Foker was there sure enough, and that "he'd been a makin a tremendous row the night afore, a drinkin and a singin, and wanting to fight Tom the postboy: which I'm thinking he'd have had the worst of it," the man added, with a grin.