Glincka comes tomorrow guest. Also Count Dardent. House small. Others may come. Giles full charge everything.
As Durant pocketed the letter, it occurred to him that Makoff must have chalked up a pretty telegraph bill from Plymouth.
“Lord, how it’s changed in fifteen years!” exclaimed Larson, staring out at the streets. Thin rain was falling. “The busses—would you look at ’em! Block the streets, almost—bigger than the houses! Where are we heading?”
“Richmond,” said Durant. “I’ve a small place there. By the way, I think Baroness Glincka will show up tomorrow, for the week-end, and perhaps Count Dardent. One or two others—hard to say. My return seems to have been advertised. You know Richmond?”
“No, but I used to know a man there.” Larson fingered his white mustache, and flung Durant a smile. “Chap named Silver—a Scotchman who managed opera tours and such. I trimmed him at a game once. Well, I expect he’s dead long ago! Damnable luck running into that chap on the train—used to be a Scotland Yard man. Wonder what he is now? A baronet, maybe.”
“You don’t seem worried,” said Durant.
The other shrugged.
“Not a bit. I’ve got two passports—different names, different faces. Inside half an hour every passport bureau in the country will be looking out for my face and Larson’s name; I couldn’t get out of England on that passport if I wanted to! But on the other, and with you to help, it’ll work. Anything will work with one of the nobility in it.”
“As court records prove!” And Durant chuckled. “Right-ho! We’ll see.”
The big Daimler purred along; Kensington Park fell behind; on to Hammersmith, on out past new built-up additions until the white square tower of Richmond church hove into sight past a long bend of highway. Durant knew barely enough of London to follow the road with understanding, and Larson did not cease to exclaim over the changes of fifteen years.