"Aren't you glad now, Paul, dear, that we brought father down to keep him out of mischief?" she whispered.
Mr. Bundercombe himself held out his hand.
"Paul," he said, "I congratulate you, my boy! I was on the other side; but
I can take a licking with the best of them. Congratulate you heartily!"
He held out his hand and gripped mine. Once more he winked.
CHAPTER XII—THE EMANCIPATION OF LOUIS
At about half past ten the following morning I turned into Prince's Gardens, to find a four-wheel cab drawn up outside the door of Mr. Bundercombe's house. On the roof was a dressing case made of some sort of compressed cane and covered with linen. Accompanying it was a black tin box, on which was painted, in white letters: "Hannah Bundercombe, President W.S.F." Standing by the door was a footman with an article in his hand that I believe is called a grip, which, in the present instance, I imagine took the place of a dressing case.
I surveyed these preparations with some interest. The temporary departure of Mrs. Bundercombe would, I felt, have an enlivening influence upon the establishment. As I turned in at the gate Mrs. Bundercombe herself appeared. She was followed by a young woman who looked distinctly bored and whom I was not at first able to place. Mrs. Bundercombe was in a state of unusual excitement.
"Say, Mr. Walmsley," she began, and her voice seemed to come from her forehead—it was so shrill and nasal; "how long will it take me to get to St. Pancras?"
I looked at the four-wheeler, on the roof of which another servant was now arranging a typewriter in its tin case.
"I should say about thirty-five minutes—in that!" I replied. "A taxi would do it in a quarter of an hour."