The boy messenger, summoned telephonically by a sympathetic maid-servant in a neighboring house, guessed that the gentleman standing on the pavement owned the “motor-car” to which he had been directed. Here were two cars, but the boy did not hesitate. He saluted.
“Messenger, sir,” he said.
“This way,” intervened Simmonds curtly.
“No. I want you,” said Medenham. “You know Sevastopolo’s, the cigarette shop in Bond Street?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take this card there, and ask him to dispatch the order at once.” Meanwhile he was writing: “Kindly send 1,000 Salonikas to 91 Cavendish Square.”
Simmonds looked anxious. He was not a smooth-spoken fellow, but he did not wish to offend Lord Medenham.
“Would your lordship mind if I sent the boy to the Savoy Hotel first?” he asked nervously. “It is rather late, and Miss Vanrenen will be expecting me.”
“What time are you due at the Savoy?”
“We were to start at twelve o’clock, but the ladies’ luggage had to be strapped on, and——”