As Fitz, tall-hatted and fur-coated, picked his way delicately down the slush-covered steps to where his taxi awaited him, he turned to offer a word of final instruction to his followers.
"Coverdale and Arbuthnot 9.4; O'Mulligan 9.8; Brasset 9.12; Vane-Anstruther 9.16. If you hear nothing in the meantime, at 9.50 you go upstairs."
"Righto," we chorussed, as Fitz boarded his chariot with a self-possession that was even touched with languor.
We watched him turn into Piccadilly, and then proceeded solemnly to invest ourselves in coats and mufflers. Four minutes is not a long space of time, yet it is quite possible for it to seem an age. Before the hall clock pointed to 9.4, one might have had a double molar drawn, or one's head cut off by the guillotine.
"300 Portland Place," said the Chief Constable in tones which somehow seemed astonishingly loud, while I squeezed as far as possible into the far corner of the vehicle for the better accommodation of my stalwart companion.
"Dirty night," said the Chief Constable. "Not fit for a dog to be out. Have the glass down?"
It may have been an overwrought fancy, but I thought I perceived a slight, but unmistakable tremor in the voice of the head of the Middleshire Constabulary.
"Not for me, thanks," said I. "These things are so stuffy."
The head of the Middleshire Constabulary agreed with me. The impression may have been due to a disordered fancy, but I thought I detected a note of embarrassment in the Chief Constable's laugh.
From Saint James's Street to Portland Place is not far, and this evening we seemed to accomplish the journey in a very short time. Having dismissed our taxi at the door of the Ambassador's imposing residence, we each looked to the other to ring his Excellency's door-bell.