He was cramming all his possessions into portmanteaux and boxes; the Hoffman was already packed, and the wall looked curiously bare without it.

Clearly this was no visit to London--he was leaving Bath for good, and who could wonder at it?
"I have arranged for the attendant from the hospital to come in at night as well as in the morning," he said, as he locked a portmanteau that was stuffed almost to bursting.

"What's the time?
We must make haste or we shall lose the train.

Do, like a good fellow, cram that heap of things into the carpet-bag while I speak to the landlady." At last we were off, rattling through the quiet streets of Bath, and reaching the station barely in time to rush up the long flight of stairs and spring into an empty carriage.

Never shall I forget that journey.
The train stopped at every single station, and sometimes in between; we were five mortal hours on the road, and more than once I thought Derrick would have fainted.