“Conclusively,” murmured Algy mildly. “Any man who leaves a house in a motor-car always goes to Paris.”
“Dry up!” roared Hugh. “Was your late military education so utterly lacking that you have forgotten the elementary precept of putting yourself in the enemy’s place? If I was Peterson, and I wanted to go to Paris, do you suppose that fifty people knowing about it would prevent me? You’re a fool, Algy—and leave me some more beer.”
Resignedly Algy sat down, and after a pause for breath, Drummond continued:
“Now listen—all of you. Ted—off you go, and raise a complete waiter’s outfit, dicky and all complete. Peter—you come with me to the aerodrome, and afterwards look up Mullings, at 13 Green Street, Hoxton, and tell him to get in touch with at least fifty demobilised soldiers who are on for a scrap. Algy—you hold the fort here, and don’t get drunk on my ale. Peter will join you, when he’s finished with Mullings, and he’s not to get drunk either. Are you all on?”
“On,” muttered Darrell weakly. “My head is playing an anthem.”
“It’ll play an oratorio before we’re through with this job, old son,” laughed Hugh. “Let’s get gay with Potts.”
Ten minutes later he was at the wheel of his car with Darrell and the millionaire behind. Algy, protesting vigorously at being, as he said, left out of it, was endeavouring to console himself by making out how much he would have won if he’d followed his infallible system of making money on the turf; Jerningham was wandering along Piccadilly anxiously wondering at what shop he could possibly ask for a dicky, and preserve his hitherto blameless reputation. But Hugh seemed in no great hurry to start. A whimsical smile was on his face, as out of the corner of his eye he watched the man who had been busy doing nothing feverishly trying to crank his car, which, after the manner of the brutes, had seized that moment to jib.
“Get away, man—get away,” cried Peter. “What are you waiting for?”
Hugh laughed.
“Peter,” he remarked, “the refinements of this game are lost on you.”