“Does the chief want me at all?” Coulson asked.
“No!” Vanderpole answered. “Go about your business as usual. Leave here for Paris, say, in ten days. There will probably be a letter for you at the Grand Hotel by that time.”
They walked together toward the main exit. The young man’s face had lost some of its grimness. Once more his features wore that look of pleasant and genial good-fellowship which seems characteristic of his race after business hours.
“Say, Mr. Coulson,” he declared, as they passed across the hall, “you and I must have a night together. This isn’t New York, by any manner of means, or Paris, but there’s some fun to be had here, in a quiet way. I’ll phone you tomorrow or the day after.”
“Sure!” Mr. Coulson declared. “I’d like it above all things.”
“I must find a taxicab,” the young man remarked. “I’ve a busy hour before me. I’ve got to go down and see the chief, who is dining somewhere in Kensington, and get back again to dine here at half past seven in the restaurant.”
“I guess you’ll have to look sharp, then.” Mr. Coulson remarked. “Do you see the time?”
Vanderpole glanced at the clock and whistled softly to himself.
“Tell you what!” he exclaimed, “I’ll write a note to one of the friends I’ve got to meet, and leave it here. Boy,” he added, turning to a page boy, “get me a taxi as quick as you can.”
The boy ran out into the Strand, and Vanderpole, sitting down at the table, wrote a few lines, which he sealed and addressed and handed to one of the reception clerks. Then he shook hands with Coulson and threw himself into a corner of the cab which was waiting.