"We will lunch somewhere by the road, and we will go on to the country house of the Claytons, who will give us tea. Then in the afternoon we will return."
Slingsby hesitated. It is curious to remember on how small a matter so much depended. I believe he would have refused, but at that moment the sunset gun went off and he jumped out of his chair.
"Yes, I am fairly rocky," he admitted. "I will take a day off."
I borrowed the car, and we set off and lunched according to our programme. It was perhaps half an hour afterwards when we were going slowly over a remarkably bad road. A powerful car, driven at a furious pace, rushed round a corner towards us, swayed, lurched, and swept past us with a couple of inches to spare, whilst a young man seated at the wheel shouted a greeting and waved his hand.
"Who the dickens was that?" I asked.
"I know," replied Slingsby. "It's Morano. He's a count, and will be a marquis and no end of a swell if he doesn't get killed motoring. Which, after all, seems likely."
I thought no more of the man until his name cropped up whilst we were sitting at tea on the Claytons' veranda.
"We passed Morano," said Slingsby. And Mrs. Clayton said with some pride--she was a pretty, kindly woman, but she rather affected the Spanish nobility:
"He lunched with us to-day. You know he is staying in Gibraltar."
"Yes, I know that," said Slingsby. "For I met him a little time ago. He wanted to know if there was a good Government launch for sale."