"Hello, Jones; what's up?"
"Howard, get that car out at once."
"Out she comes. Wait till I give her radiator a bucket of water. Gee!" whispered Howard, whom Hargreave often used as his chauffeur, "get on to his nibs! First time I ever saw him awake. I wonder what's doing? You never know what's back of those mummy-faced head waiters.... All right, Jones!"
The chauffeur jumped into the car and Jones took the seat beside him.
"Where to?"
"Number 78..." and the rest of it trailed away, smothered in the violent thunder of the big six's engines.
During the car's flight several policemen hailed it without success. Down this street, up that, round this corner, fifty miles an hour; and all the while Jones shouted: "Faster, faster!"
Within twelve minutes from the time it left the garage, the car stopped opposite 78 Grove Street, and Jones got out.
"Wait here, Howard. If several men come rushing out, or I don't appear within ten minutes, fire your gun a couple of times for the police. I don't want them if we can manage without. They'd only bungle."
"All right, Mr. Jones," said the chauffeur. He had, in the past quarter of an hour, acquired a deep and lasting respect for the butler chap. He was a regular fellow, for all his brass buttons.