Having only hand-baggage, Larson and Durant slipped out of the train and down the platform in all haste; they would have only a few moments before the plight of the unfortunate detective was discovered, and swiftness was imperative. Before they had gone the length of the train, however, a neatly liveried chauffeur appeared and saluted Durant as though from old acquaintance.
“All ready, Your Lordship.”
“Ah, Giles, how are you?” exclaimed Durant. Inspecting the man, he found him to be no Englishman, certainly—a Continental of some sort. “Here, Larson, turn over your bags to Giles. Is the house opened up for me, Giles?”
“Quite, sir. And the other guests, sir? You cabled one or two others might arrive—”
“Haven’t heard yet, Giles,” said Durant, and could have laughed to see the expression on Larson’s face—half admiring, half delighted. “Lord Tiverton hasn’t shown up?”
“No sir, but I have a letter—it came this morning, and as it seemed rather important, I took the liberty to bring it along, sir.”
“Give it to me at the car. Hurry, now! Let’s get out of this crowd.”
Durant let Giles lead the way, and followed with Larson. He did not half like the looks of this tall, rangy chauffeur with a cast in one eye—the man looked altogether too intelligent to be a petty scoundrel. Durant sized him up as a Bulgar or Austrian, from his perfect English and the general cut of his jib.
In another two minutes they were out of the station and climbing into a waiting Daimler saloon that had all the appearance of a luxurious private car. When he had stowed the bags, Giles handed in a letter, closed the door, mounted to his seat, and they moved off. Durant found the letter a registered envelope addressed to Lord Northcote, at an address in King’s Road, Richmond.
“Excuse me, will you?” he said, and tore it open in some wonder. He found a page enclosed bearing the following typed message, unaddressed and unsigned: