It was therefore eight-thirty o’clock of a pleasant August evening when the old grey two-seater slid through the streets of Newhaven and down to the idle quay.
Two other cars were waiting to go aboard. One was a green cabriolet with red wire wheels.
Fairfax knew it at once—and stopped in his tracks.
It was an Hispano-Suiza, the property of a nobleman—that, in fact, of the Most Honourable the Marquess of Beringhampton.
For a moment or two Punch stared at the equipage. Then he took out his case and lighted a cigarette.
“They’re off at last,” he said. “After seven weeks at the gate, at last they’re off. . . . If I wasn’t a blinkin’ fool, I should turn round and drive straight back. As it is . . .” He shifted uneasily. “Damn it all, why shouldn’t I have a run? Why shouldn’t I have it out before he comes—get there and have it out? An’ tell her he’s coming an’ then push gracefully off? I’ve nothing to lose, and I’ld like her to know how much I really cared.” He sat up suddenly. “By George, I will. When she knows he’s really off, perhaps she won’t——” He stopped short there, took off his hat and carefully wiped his face. Then he put on his hat, adjusted it carefully, thrust his cigarette between his lips, and folded his arms. “The art of Life,” he announced, “is to keep one’s bullet head. If I go, it’s simply because I’ve got nothing to lose.”
As the A.A. man came up—
“Last on the boat, first off—am I right?” said Fairfax.
“You are, sir.”
“Then put me on last, please.”