“Dam’ all, as they say in the vernacular. Have you blighters finished the beer?”
“Probably,” remarked Peter Darrell. “What’s the programme now?”
Hugh examined the head on his glass with a professional eye before replying.
“Two things,” he murmured at length, “fairly leap to the eye. The first is to get Potts away to a place of safety; the second is to get over to Paris.”
“Well, let’s get gay over the first, as a kick-off,” said Jerningham, rising. “There’s a car outside the door; there is England at our disposal. We’ll take him away; you pad the hoof to Victoria and catch the boat-train.”
“It sounds too easy,” remarked Hugh. “Have a look out of the window, Ted, and you’ll see a man frightfully busy doing nothing not far from the door. You will also see a racing-car just across the street. Put a wet compress on your head, and connect the two.”
A gloomy silence settled on the assembly, to be broken by Jerry Seymour suddenly waking up with a start.
“I’ve got the stomach-ache,” he announced proudly.
His listeners gazed at him unmoved.
“You shouldn’t eat so fast,” remarked Algy severely. “And you certainly oughtn’t to drink that beer.”