“Yes, my lord. I’m goin’ there with his lordship’s portmanteaux.”
The head of the Fitzroy clan turned to Simmonds again.
“Will you drive me to Gloucester?” he asked.
“No, my lord. I’m under contract to remain in Bristol five days.”
“Very well. Stop in Bristol, and be d—d to you. Is there any reason why you should not take me to pick up my son’s belongings? Then Dale and I can go to Hereford by train. Viscount Medenham is devilish particular about his linen. If I stick to his shirts I shall meet him sometime to-day, I suppose.”
Simmonds sought Dale’s counsel by an underlook, but that hapless sportsman could offer no suggestion, so the other made the best of a bad business.
“I’ll do that, of course, my lord,” he said with alacrity. “Just grab his lordship’s dressing-case from that porter and shove it inside,” he went on, eying Dale fiercely, well knowing that the whole collapse arose from a cause but too easily traced.
“No, no,” broke in the Earl, whose magisterial experiences had taught him the wisdom of keeping witnesses apart, “Dale comes with me. I want to sift this business thoroughly. Put the case in front. We can pile the other luggage on top of it. Now, Dale, jump inside. Your friend knows where to go, I expect.”
Thus did two bizarre elements intrude themselves into the natural order of things on that fine morning in the West of England. The very shortness of the road between Bristol and Bath apparently offered an insuperable obstacle to the passage of Simmonds’s car along it, and some unknown “chap,” whose “nevvy” had married the sister of a Beckhampton housemaid, became the predominating factor in a situation that affected the fortunes of several notable people.