"Yes."
"Your chauffeur says Mrs. Baxter told him to get this golf bag?"
"That's right," smiled Hester pleasantly.
The locker woman still seemed dissatisfied. "It's queer," she grumbled. "Mrs. Baxter told me to be careful of this bag because she had borrowed it."
"Exactly," smiled Hester, "and now Mrs. Baxter wants to return it. In here, please. Thank you." She placed the bag on the seat beside her and handed the woman a two-shilling piece. Then to Anton with a grand air, "Home, please. Mrs. Baxter is waiting."
Anton touched his cap respectfully, but did not move.
"I'll have to ask you to sit on the front seat, miss; one of the back springs is broken. Let me take this for you." And he placed the golf bag close to the steering wheel. With a movement of annoyance Hester followed the bag and seated herself next to the driver. Thus, side by side and mutually distrustful, they shot out of the grounds with Betty Thompson's much-coveted golf bag between them.
"We've turned the trick—we've got the goods," Anton whispered exultingly. Then, slowing up the machine, he peered down among the golf clubs. "Can you see it, kid?"
"Lean the bag toward me. That's right." She pushed open the clubs and gave a cry of satisfaction. "Ah! There! Way down at the bottom! Don't you see?"
The chauffeur looked again, and this time made out distinctly the fat, brown wallet, clasped by its elastic band, that was still lying safe in its singular hiding-place.