“Just off for a snack, sir, before goin’ to the hotel.”
“Bring him here at once. We will attend to the snack afterwards. No mistake, now, Dale. He must see no one in the hotel until he and I have had a talk.”
Simmonds was produced. He saluted.
“Glad to meet you again, my lord,” he said. “I hope I haven’t caused any trouble by sending that telegram to Bournemouth, but Dale tells me that you don’t wish your title to be known.”
“Forget it,” said Medenham. “I have done you a good turn, Simmonds—are you prepared to do me one?”
“Just try me, sir.”
“Put your car out of commission. Stick a pin through the earth contact of your magneto and jam it against a cylinder, or something of the sort. Then go to Miss Vanrenen and tell her how sorry you are, but you must have another week at least to pull things straight. She will not be vexed, and I guarantee you against any possible loss. To put the best face on affairs, you had better remain in Bristol a few days at my expense. Of course, it is understood that I deputize for you during the remainder of the tour.”
Simmonds, no courtier, grinned broadly, and even Dale winked at the North Star; Medenham had steeled himself against such manifestations of crude opinion—his face was impassive as that of a graven image.
“Of course I’ll oblige you in that way, my lord. Who wouldn’t?” came the slow reply.