And then the door opened, and I got out unsteadily and found myself in the midst of much traffic and a press of people. I then grew conscious that some of these had a way with them, and that they were directing things with a sort of calm officiousness.
My dazed senses welcomed the helmet of a policeman.
"Call a taxi, please," said I, addressing him in a voice that somehow did not seem to belong to me. "Must catch the 5.28 Grand Central, whatever happens. Will give you my card."
As I spoke I turned to help my companion out of the vehicle, and in the act nearly measured my length on the kerb. Strong and sympathetic hands seemed to come about me, and again the voice of the man with the straw-coloured moustache sounded in my ear, decisive but kindly and respectful.
"There is a doctor across the road, sir. Can you walk, sir? Lean your weight on me."
"5.28 Grand Central," was my incoherent, almost involuntary rejoinder. "The Princess."
"Yes, yes, sir," said the voice of my friend in need breaking in again on my senses. "The Princess will be all right with us."
Almost as if by magic a passage was made for us through the whirlpool of traffic. We seemed to be in the middle of a street that appeared quite familiar, and policemen and extremely efficient persons in dark overcoats seemed to abound.
"The Princess," I continued to mutter vaguely at intervals.
"I am with you," said a low and calm voice at my side.