"Then he couldn't be a tramp," said James judiciously. "Tramps don't know nothing about motor-cars."
"Maybe he took it up to the hotel," said Mike, cheerfully helpful.
The stranger shook his head. "No, he wouldn't do that. He would get out of the country as fast as he could."
"If there wasn't no gasolene," suggested James tentatively.
"He could easily get some from the hotel. It was early when he stole my clothes." And James realized with relief that the youth before him was, in his own eyes, always right, and advice wholly superfluous.
"I saw a big red car," said Mike, "down the road a bit, over the other side of the village, going south. But maybe your car wasn't red."
"Yes, yes, it was," cried the stranger. "What was the make? Could you tell?"
"A Thomas car—"
"Ah, my car. Get me something to put on and I'll make it worth your while. I'm William Hargrave Batchelor. Maybe you have read about me in yesterday's papers?" And the poor, shivering, naked wretch drew himself up proudly and smiled with much complacency.
"I," said Mike, tapping himself on his breast, "am George V., of England."