"Well, you'd better get on then," said the Admiral. "But, by the way, tell Forrest—Wing-Commander Forrest—to keep an eye on his machines. There are three German prisoners loose near here—two pilots and a mechanic from their Flying Corps. They may try and steal a machine to get away on. Tell him to lock up his hangars, or whatever he calls the things, and—all right—get on—get on. What are you waiting for?"
Rainer, nothing loath, took his dismissal. He hurried across the hall, cramming the despatch, in its stiff parchment envelope, into the inside pocket of his overcoat as he went. The car was standing purring at the door, a leakage of light from the side-lamps shining on a demure little face behind the screen, and showing him also that the back near-side door was standing invitingly open.
"You little darling," he thought, "as if you didn't know what you are in for." He firmly closed the back door, sat down in the vacant front seat, and reached over to pull in a rug from behind him. As he did so the clutch was gently engaged and the car slid quietly down the drive.
"It's jolly nice your driving me like this, Miss Woodcote," he said. "Do you drive many despatch officers?"
"Why, yes, Mr Rainer; Thompson and I take turns at it."
"Are you an official chauffeur, then?"
"I have been for some time now."
"Always here?"
"No, I was at Portsmouth a bit."
"Indeed? How far is it to Shortcombe?"