“About thirty miles—this side of Tunbridge Wells,” and Dick wrote the address on a slip of paper.
Half an hour later, a long yellow Rolls was flying across Westminster Bridge, threading the traffic with a recklessness which brought the hearts of hardened chauffeurs to their mouths; and forty minutes after he had left Whitehall, Dick was speeding up an elm-bordered avenue to the home of the Secretary of State.
The butler who met him could give him no encouragement.
“I’m afraid Mr. Whitby cannot see you, sir. He has a very bad attack of gout, and the doctors have told him that he mustn’t touch any kind of business whatever.”
“This is a matter of life and death,” said Dick, “and I must see him. Or, failing him, I must see the King.”
This message, conveyed to the invalid, produced an invitation to walk upstairs.
“What is it, sir?” asked the Minister sharply as Dick came in. “I cannot possibly attend to any business whatever. I’m suffering the tortures of the damned with this infernal foot of mine. Now tell me, what is it?”
Quickly Gordon related his discovery.
“An astounding story,” said the Minister, and winced. “Where is the picture?”
“In London, sir.”