“We’ve our own car,” said Durant. “Yes, we can get out by eleven or shortly after.”
“Right-ho!”
Durant hung up and glanced at the man beside him.
“Special plane going over to Paris. We must get to Croydon at eleven. You, I, Larson.”
“Good,” said the Russian. “I’ll arrange to have the Daimler picked up at the aërodrome—it’s a rented car. Or Dardent can attend to that detail.”
“We’d better all go out at once, carry our luggage, pile in and be off,” said Durant. “The house is being watched—you’ll have to make a dash for it and throw ’em off.”
Dardent appeared, waspishly excited, and the maid—in reality his wife—followed. Helen Glincka was on the stairs, and Durant took her bags and set them with his own.
“It’ll be touch and go,” he said, perceiving that the general feeling was that the police were after them all. Naturally, he alone knew the actual facts. “Depends on getting off on the jump. Not a word of anything wrong, now, before Larson! Helen, we’ll drop you at the Savoy. Go on to Paris tonight via Havre, as arranged; you’re in no danger. Dardent, where’ll we drop you?”
“Brompton Road,” said the little Frenchman. “Our apartment is there—Michael knows.”
“Good. Here’s Larson. All together, now—out to the car, pile in anyhow!”