“He isn’t,” said Hal; “he’s somewhere east of Piccadilly, studying Phœnician Architecture, and the herringbone pattern on antique masonry.”
“Oh, damn!” intercepted Dick, “the old man has let me down badly this time; this car won’t move before daybreak. It means a red light burning all night, and we must go to the inn.”
“But, Dick,” Hal exclaimed in quick alarm. “How can I let Dudley know? He’ll have a fit at the idea of my being out all night like that.”
“He ought to be too thankful you are safe and sound to mind anything else.”
“But he won’t; because he is always grumbling at my not getting back before dark. There must surely be a train from somewhere?”
Her voice had grown seriously alarmed as she began to realise what sort of a fix she was in. The stranger came forward to lend his aid to the inspection, and after a cursory glance added his verdict to Dick’s.
“You won’t move her before morning; and there are no trains anywhere near here on Sunday night. I am going to London myself; you must let me give you both a lift.”
Dick stood up with an air of finality.
“I can’t leave her. She isn’t exactly all my own, you see. I must stay at the inn, but if you wouldn’t mind taking Miss Pritchard—” he looked at Hal a little anxiously.
“I shall be delighted,” came the brisk response from the stranger.