She picked up the cloak which she had brought into the drawing-room, threw at Chalfont a smile of the most charming camaraderie, touched Lady Cheyne’s arm in a way that asked for friendship and left the drawing-room. With one quick look at the deserted hall with all its strange coats and stranger hats, she made for the front door, opened it, closed it behind her stealthily and ran down the stone path which led to the street. The theater traffic was all headed towards High Street, Kensington. There was not a vacant taxi to be seen. It would not do to stand about in front of the house, so the little Cinderella who had not waited for the magic hour of twelve and had taken good care not to leave her crystal slipper behind her ran up the street to the first turning and stood quivering with excitement and glee beneath a friendly lamp post. A little laugh floated into the muggy air.
“Yes, it’s a funny world, ain’t it?”
It was a Bobby who had sidled up from the shadow of a wall and towered above her, with a sceptical grin about his mouth.
Instantly a new thought came into Lola’s head. “What would Lady Feo do?” She gave it five seconds and turned coolly, calmly and graciously to the arm of the law,—a strong and obviously would-be familiar arm. This girl—running about alone in evening dress—at that time of night.
“I told my car to wait here,” she said. “Evidently there has been some mistake. Will you be good enough to call me a cab?”
A hand swept up to the peak of the helmet. “Nothing simpler, Madam.”
By the grace of God and the luck that follows drunkards, a taxi was discharging a fare halfway down the road. The ex-sergeant of the Sussex regiment put two fingers into his mouth. With a new interest in life the cab made a wide turn and came up not without style, but with a certain amount of discretion, because of the uniform which could be seen beneath the lamp post.
The Bobby opened the door. There was admiration in his eyes. “A good fairy, ma’am,” he said.
And Lola paused and looked up into his face,—a man face, with a big moustache and rather bristling eyebrows, a dent in a firm chin and the mark of shrapnel on the left cheek bone. “A very good fairy,” she said. “You’ll never know how good. Thanks, most awfully.”
And once more the hand flicked to the brim of the helmet as Lola in an undertone gave her address to the driver. Not even the Bobby must see the anti-climax which would be brought about by such an address as Castleton Terrace.