There had been two men in front—the driver and another, and he wondered idly if the latter was Mr. Benton. Probably not, he reflected, since Phyllis had said nothing about her father being in London. He accelerated up the hill and swung over the top; the next moment he braked hard and pulled up just in time. The Rolls, with the chauffeur peering into the bonnet, had stopped in such a position that it was impossible for him to get by.
The girl was still seated in the back of the car, also the passenger in front, but the two other men were standing in the road apparently watching the chauffeur, and after a while the one whom Drummond had recognised as Lakington came towards him.
“I’m so sorry,” he began—and then paused in surprise. “Why, surely it’s Captain Drummond?”
Drummond nodded pleasantly. “The occupant of a car is hardly likely to change in a mile, is he?” he remarked. “I’m afraid I forgot to wave as you went past, but I got your smile all right.” He leant on his steering-wheel and lit a second cigarette. “Are you likely to be long?” he asked; “because if so, I’ll stop my engine.”
The other man was now approaching casually, and Drummond regarded him curiously. “A friend of our little Phyllis, Peterson,” said Lakington, as he came up. “I found them having tea together yesterday at the Carlton.”
“Any friend of Miss Benton’s is, I hope, ours,” said Peterson with a smile. “You’ve known her a long time, I expect?”
“Quite a long time,” returned Hugh. “We have jazzed together on many occasions.”
“Which makes it all the more unfortunate that we should have delayed you,” said Peterson. “I can’t help thinking, Lakington, that that new chauffeur is a bit of a fool.”
“I hope he avoided the crash all right,” murmured Drummond politely.
Both men looked at him. “The crash!” said Lakington. “There was no question of a crash. We just stopped.”