“Get ready! I’ve got your money in my bag. We’re off in five minutes.”
“I’ll need ten,” said Larson, calmly enough. “I must get rid of this mustache, clap on some hair-dye, fix my face.”
“Take seven—move like hell!” snapped Durant.
Larson was already plunging for his bag. Catching up his own grips without bothering to pack his scattered belongings, Durant hurried downstairs to the telephone. In two minutes he had the Croydon aërodrome on the line.
“Mr. Durant speaking,” he said. “I have bookings for myself and a friend on the noon Paris bus tomorrow. We want to change and go over today. A third may go with us.”
“Very sorry, sir, we’ve just booked the last seat,” came the reply. “Hold on just a moment, will you?”
Durant held on, cursing softly to himself. Giles appeared, breathing hard.
“Off in five minutes,” he said. Durant nodded. Then came the voice on the wire: “Hello! I think we can take care of you, sir. We’re sending over a D H special to bring back a party of officials, and we can put you and the mail-sacks aboard, if you like. Would there be any trunks?”
“No, nothing but hand-luggage,” said Durant in sharp relief.
“Can do, sir. She’ll take off a bit ahead of the regular bus, though—about eleven-thirty. Can you get out here by eleven?”