“Yes, sir?” The chauffeur turned his head.
“This gentleman is a Russian Bolshevik. We don’t want to shoot him, but it may be necessary. You understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“I want to go to Gatehouse in Kent. Know the road at all?”
“Yes, sir, it will be about an hour and a half’s run.”
“Make it an hour. I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” The car shot forward through the traffic.
Julius ensconced himself comfortably by the side of his victim. He kept his hand in the pocket of his coat, but his manner was urbane to the last degree.
“There was a man I shot once in Arizona——” he began cheerfully.
At the end of the hour’s run the unfortunate Kramenin was more dead than alive. In succession to the anecdote of the Arizona man, there had been a tough from ‘Frisco, and an episode in the Rockies. Julius’s narrative style, if not strictly accurate, was picturesque!