And how Michael drove, out through Victoria and on to Croydon! Durant marveled at it; no American, accustomed to wide highways and a gradual sweep around other cars, could have tooled a car at any speed along these narrow English lanes, except with long practice. With a head-on collision apparently imminent, each car would give a jerky twist, out and back—and they would be past. There was a peculiar knack to it, and the Russian had this knack at his fingers’ ends.
“Why the general rush?” inquired Larson, when the two of them were alone in the car. “Everybody seemed in a devil of a hurry to get gone!”
Durant had already prepared for this, and broke into a laugh.
“We had to get out quickly—so I told ’em the cook had developed smallpox. Cleared out the maid and all, as you saw! Our pleasant chauffeur goes over with us. Here’s my bag—I’ll get out your money. Wrap it in this newspaper.”
They suited action to word, Durant having put his own bags inside the car. With a newspaper-wrapped bundle of sixty thousand dollars in his lap, Larson relaxed and lighted a cigarette. Now, for the first time, Durant had a good view of him, and whistled.
“You certainly have changed yourself! Hope you have your extra passport handy.”
“No danger. As to the change—that’s a cinch.”
It was also a complete success, to which Larson now added a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. With his mustache gone and his hair changed from gray to a glossy black, he looked twenty years younger; eyebrows had become black too, and subtle changes in the outline of his face, due probably to wads of cotton against his teeth, gave him an entirely new look, as did the goggles—stamping him in London as an American tourist.
Now they had turned past the Croydon Arms, and the big car thrummed along wide open until the huge gray hangars loomed ahead. They swung in between the rows of low buildings and came to rest in the parking-space beside the office. Two planes were already warming up—a huge silver giant, triple-engined, and a smaller De Haviland, on the concrete take-off. An orange-brown French machine was just circling to land.
“Mr. Durant?” A crisp, energetic youngster pulled open the car door. “Come along and I’ll rush you through—plane’s waiting now. We’ll have you off the ground before the bus gets here for the regular flight. Into the office, please.”