Mrs. Devar fancied that the speaker, whose words thus far had excited her liveliest curiosity, would imagine that he was in communication with the proprietors of the hotel. She was not mistaken. Dale fell into the trap instantly, though, indeed, he was not to be blamed, since he had asked most earnestly that “Mr. Fitzroy, Miss Vanrenen’s chauffeur” should be brought to the telephone.
“Well, mam,” he said, “if I can’t get hold of—of Fitzroy—I must leave a message, as I don’t suppose I’ll have another chanst. I’m his man, I’m Dale; have you got it?”
“Yes—Dale.”
“Tell him the Earl of Fairholme turned up in Bristol an’ forced me to explain everything. I couldn’t help it. The old gentleman fell from the blooming sky, he did. Will you remember that name?”
“Oh, yes: the Earl of Fairholme.”
“Well, his lordship will understand. I mean you must tell Fitzroy what I said. Please tell him privately. I expect I’ll get the sack anyhow over this business, but I’m doin’ me best in tryin’ the telephone, so you’ll confer a favor, mam, if you call Fitzroy on one side before tellin’ him.”
Though the telephone-box was stuffy when the door was closed, Mrs. Devar felt a cold chill running down her spine.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said thickly. “You’re Dale, somebody’s man; whose man?”
“His lordship’s. Oh, d—n. Beg pardon, mam, but I’m Fitzroy’s chauffeur.”
It was a glorious night of early summer, yet lightning struck in that little shut-off section of the hotel.