The chauffeur, with characteristic skill, arranged that the car should run out of petrol precisely in front of the best hotel in Chelmsford, which was about half-way to London. The motor-bicycle had not been seen for several miles. But scarcely had they resumed the journey, by the Epping road, when it came again into view—in front of them. How had the fellow guessed that they would take the longer Epping road instead of the shorter Romford road?
“When shall we be arriving in Frinton?” Musa inquired, beatific.
“We shan’t be arriving in Frinton any more,” said Audrey. “We must go straight to London.”
“It is like a dream,” Musa murmured, as it were in ecstasy. Then his features changed and he almost screamed: “But my violin! My violin! We must go back for it.”
“Violin!” said Audrey. “That’s nothing! I’ve even come without gloves.” And she had.
She reassured Musa as to the violin, and the chauffeur as to the abandoned Gladstone bag containing the chauffeur’s personal effects, and herself as to many things. An hour and twenty minutes later the car, with three people in it, thickly dusted even to the eyebrows, drew up in the courtyard of Charing Cross railway station, and the motor-cycle was visible, its glaring red somewhat paled, in the Strand outside. The time was ten-fifteen.
“We shall take the eleven o’clock boat train for Paris,” she said to Musa.
“You also?”
She nodded. He was in heaven. He could even do without his violin.
“How nice it is not to be bothered with luggage,” she said.