“Which van, sir?”
“The one from Plymouth.” Then, with conscious bravado, he added: “I'm from the Ryndam. You'll recognize them by the Holland-American tags.”
The porter had gone to secure a barrow. While Hindwood waited, gazing about him idly, his eyes were startled by a news-placard bearing the following legend:
DISAPPEARANCE OF A PRINCE
FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED
He swayed, as though he had been struck by a bullet. He glanced round feverishly, fearing lest he might espy another placard stating, “Santa Gorlof Arrested.” But no—for the moment she was safe. He thanked God for the touring-car and the forethought of the foreign gentleman who could speak no English.
Quickly he began to readjust his plans. If he went to claim his trunks, there was no telling by whom he might be met—newspaper men, detectives, officials from the Foreign Office. Moreover, Santa's trunks were in the van. When he had explained himself, he might be called upon to account for her absence. There was only one thing for him to do: for her sake he must get out of England. If he delayed, he might be prevented. It would be unwise for him to go to the Ritz; he must spend the night at some obscure hotel. The only place to which he might be traced was the Embassy; but he would have to risk that—it was of the utmost importance that he should pick up his communications.
He was on the point of making good his escape, when the porter trundled up with his barrow.
“Hi, mister! Where are you goin'? I'll be needin' you to identify 'em.”
“I know you will.” Hindwood turned on him a face which was flustered. “But I've just remembered I have an engagement. I'll send for them later. It'll make no difference to you; here's what I should have paid you.”