Mr. Grant lifted his hat solemnly.
"Amen!" he said. "Come on, young fellow," he added gruffly. "I'll take you to London as long as you promise not to try and sing to me."
I spared my benefactor any exuberant show of gratitude, but I felt that I was in luck's way as I stretched myself out in the luxuriously cushioned seat of Mr. Grant's limousine. We swung off along the Bristol road.
"Got to call at a house three miles out on this road," Mr. Grant explained thickly. "We'll be in London before the fastest of them, though."
"It's quite immaterial to me so long as we get there by this evening," I answered.
We drove on for between three and four miles. Then, without any order from Mr. Grant, the car came to a standstill by the side of the road. I looked at my companion for some explanation. He was leaning a little forward, with both hands clasped around the knob of his stick. His attitude was one of listening.
"Is the house where you want to call near here?" I asked.
"Listen!" was the brusque reply.
I thrust my head out of the window of the car and held my breath. Climbing the hill behind us, hidden by the mist, was another car, puffing and snorting as though in some difficulties. It came into sight in a minute or two—a Bath taxicab, laden with luggage. Mr. Grant descended.
"Something wrong with that engine," he remarked. "Perhaps we had better enquire if we can help."