“Ah, the deuce! That sounds formidable.”
“Of course they must stow everything into the canvas trunks I supplied, my lord.”
Medenham stooped and examined the screws which fastened an iron grid at the back of the broken-down vehicle.
“Whip open the tool box, Dale, and transfer that arrangement to my car,” he said briskly. “Make it fit somehow. I don’t approve of damaged paintwork, nor of weight behind the driving-wheels for that matter, but time presses, and the ladies might shy at a request to repack their belongings into my kit-bags, even if I were carrying them. Now, Simmonds, give me the route, if you know it, and hand over your road maps. I mean to take your place until your car is put right. Wire me where to expect you. You ought to be ship-shape in three days, at the utmost.”
“My lord——” began the overwhelmed Simmonds.
“I’ll see you hanged as high as Haman before I hand over my Mercury to you, if that is what you are thinking of,” said Medenham sharply. “Why, man, she is built like a watch. It would take you a month to understand her. Now, you boy, be off to Sevastopolo’s. Where can I buy a chauffeur’s kit, Simmonds?”
“Your lordship is really too kind. I couldn’t think of permitting it,” muttered Simmonds.
“What, then—do you refuse my assistance?”
“It isn’t that, my lord. I am awfully grateful——”
“Are you afraid that I shall run off with Miss Vanrenen—hold her to ransom—send Black Hand letters to her father, and that sort of thing?”