The gyro-car ran that afternoon with such easy speed that Maurice Buckland was stirred out of his carefully cultivated indifference. Before it had gone a quarter of a mile he had ejaculated “By George!” three times in a crescendo of admiration, and gave a hearty assent to George’s assertion that “she” was a spanker. Nor was he perturbed when she narrowly shaved a foreign-looking man hanging about at the corner of the road that led to the Weybridge Ferry. After half an hour’s spin George suggested that they should try her on the water, but then Maurice relapsed into his former sceptical manner, and declared that he had had enough for one day.
On the way back they again passed the foreigner, who stood aside and watched the strange car as it flashed by.
“Did you notice the greedy look on that fellow’s face?” said George.
“I am not in the least interested in him,” replied Maurice coldly.
“I suppose not. You see foreign Johnnies every day. He looked as if he wished the car were his. Will you come on the river to-morrow?”
“No. I am going to Town.”
“You’ll let me drive you to the station?”
“By all means, if you’ll promise to go carefully round the corner.”
“Rather! Those old flies are dangerous, and ought to be abolished.”
Next afternoon George had the pleasure of driving his brother to the station. As they passed the Anchor they noticed a large motor-car with a yellow body standing at the door of the little hotel. Several foreigners were lounging on the garden seat in front of the coffee-room. They broke off their conversation as the gyro-car ran by, looking after it with curiosity. A minute after it arrived at the station the motor-car dashed up. Two men alighted from it, and went into the booking-office, where Maurice had just taken his ticket. George did not leave the gyro-car or wait to see the train off, but called a good-bye to Maurice over the fence, and promised to meet him on his return.