“Yes, my lord, that’s hit hexactly,” put in Dale, with a nervous eagerness that demanded the help of not less than two aspirates.
The Earl managed to restrain another outburst.
“Nothing to cavil at so far,” he said with forced composure. “The only point that remains is—where is Lord Medenham now?”
“Somewhere between here an’ Gloucester, my lord,” said Simmonds.
“Gloucester—that is not on the way to London!”
No reply; neither man was willing to bell the cat. Finding Simmonds a tough customer, Fairholme tackled Dale.
“Come, come, this is rather absurd,” he cried. “Fancy my son’s chauffeur jibbing at my questions! Once and for all, Dale, where shall I find Lord Medenham to-night?”
There was no escape now. Dale had to blurt out the fatal word:
“Hereford!”
“Are you sure?”