He carried Shirley upstairs and laid her, as directed, on a big mahogany bed in a bedroom smelling of must. The landlady then informed him that she didn't want him any longer, and he retired, feeling that Shirley was in good hands.
Downstairs he found the sailor regaling the occupants of the bar with his story, which was not losing anything in the telling. He did not wish to accept the two five-pound notes that Amberley drew out of his case, but allowed himself to be overruled after a short argument. Amberley left him treating everyone to drinks in the most liberal fashion. It seemed probable that before long he and his cronies would be cast forth into the street; he hoped the sailor would not end the night in the lock-up.
The Bentley was standing where he had left it, outside the yard. He got into it and turned to drive back to the creek. It was now some time after eight o'clock and growing chilly. Amberley felt his overcoat, found it decidedly damp, and threw it onto the back seat.
He drove fast but decorously to the longshoreman's cottage, and had barely pulled on his brakes when the door opened and the sergeant bounced out.
"Is that you, Mr. Amberley?" he demanded. "Lor' sir, I've been getting nervous. It's almost an hour since you made off. Did you catch the boat? Where've sir?"
"In a pub," said Amberley, himself again.
The sergeant shrugged with his emotions. "In a - in a - oh, you have, have you, sir? And very nice too, I daresay."
"Very," agreed Amberley. "Did you get him?"
"No," said the sergeant bitterly. "I didn't. And why? Because this perishing fool here hadn't thought to put any petrol in his motorboat." He realised suddenly that the bleak look had gone from Mr. Amberley's face. "Good Lord, sir, you're never going to tell me you've got her?"
"Oh yes, I've got her," Amberley replied. "She's at the pub I told you about."