Peter pulled a telegraph pad towards him; wrote a deliberate wire to Simpson’s private address at Harrow; called “Driver Norris!”
A bullet head poked itself in at the doorway, said “Yes, sir.”
“Go and find Driver Jelks. Tell him to take a bicycle and get this wire off sharp. Then go over to the Mess; find Mr. Purves; ask him if he’d mind coming over to see me for a minute. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”
A few minutes later Purves, with a mock salute and a drawled “Did’st send for me, P.J.?” came into the room.
“I say, old man, I’ve got to go up to town tomorrow”—it will be noticed that Peter took Stark’s leave for granted—“So you’ll have to cancel that telephone parade of yours.”
“Oh, I say . . .”
“Sorry. I’ll be back in the evening. It’s rather important.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.” Purves noticed that P.J.’s voice was a trifle grim.
“Oh, no. Just something in the City that needs my personal attention.”