"And very cheap, too," replied Ethel; "the comfort of sleeping in a real brass bedstead instead of those intolerable bunks is worth three times as much!"
I looked at my cigar and said nothing; but for the generosity of the old lady of Monmouth Street, Bath, a bunk would have been my lot, without doubt, in the ordinary way. Though she had laid a heavy burden upon me, she certainly had a kind consideration for my comfort.
Further conversation was put an end to by the entry of my new man,
Brooks, with my travelling coat.
"The motor's at the door, sir," he announced.
I had engaged a special motor-brougham to take me from the hotel to my lawyers in Lincoln's Inn, and from there to the station with the precious casket in my possession; I had already banked the notes. I wished to make the journey as rapidly as possible, and Brooks was to accompany me, my luggage going on under the care of St. Nivel's man.
"Then au revoir until we meet at Euston," I said to my cousins; "mind you are in good time for the train."
"We shall be all right," answered Ethel. "I wish we were coming with you. I feel rather anxious about you."
"Don't you worry, Ethel," St. Nivel replied, "he'll be all right. He's not a child."
I went off and got into the motor, Brooks taking his seat on the box.
We rattled away through the crowded streets in the dim half-fog that was enveloping the town, and duly arrived at the dreary-looking offices of the lawyers.