“Miss Trant, I find I’ve got to get down to the City at once.”
“Oh, yes?” (It sounded all right, I think.) “Then here we part company.”
Sharply concise, in his old orders-for-the-day voice, came Still Waters’ “No. If you don’t mind, I want you to come on with me.”
With him?
And presently I was whizzing down King’s Road to Sloane Square in a taxi beside him, wondering, as even he had never made me wonder yet, what this further unexpectedness might mean. He said nothing. He was intent upon the paper he had taken out again.
Business, of course—but why take me with him?
At the post office he stopped the cab, got out and strode to the telephone, then out again.
“As quick as you can,” he told the driver, “to the Near Oriental Shipping Company’s offices, Leadenhall Street.”