“From what little I have seen of Miss Vanrenen she is much more likely to run off with you, my lord. But——”
“You’re growing incoherent, Simmonds. For goodness’ sake tell me where I am to go. You can safely leave all the rest to me, and we haven’t a minute to lose if I am to secure any sort of a decent motoring kit before I turn up at the hotel. Pull yourself together, man. Action front and fire! Guns unlimbered and first range-finder dispatched in nineteen seconds—eh, what?”
Simmonds squared his shoulders. He had been a driver in the Royal Artillery before he joined Viscount Medenham’s troop of Imperial Yeomanry. There was no further argument. Dale, Oriental in phlegm now that Eyot was safely backed, was already unscrewing the luggage carrier.
Half an hour later, the Mercury curled with sinuous grace out of the busy Strand into the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel. The inclosure snorted with motors, the air was petrolisé, all the world of the hotel was going, or had already gone, to Epsom.
One quick glance at the lines of traffic showed Medenham that the Swiss Rear-Admiral on duty would not allow him to remain an unnecessary instant in front of the actual doorway. He swung his car to the exit side, crept in behind a departing taxicab, and grabbed a hurrying boy in buttons.
“You listen to me, boy,” he said.
The boy remarked that his hearing was perfect.
“Well, go to Miss Vanrenen and say that her motor is waiting. Seize a porter, and do not leave him until he has brought two canvas trunks from the lady’s rooms. Help him to strap them on the grid, and I’ll give each of you half-a-crown.”
The boy vanished. Never before had a chauffeur addressed him so convincingly.
Medenham, standing by the side of the car, was deep in the contours of a road map of Sussex when a sweet if somewhat petulant voice, apparently at his elbow, complained that its owner could not see Simmonds anywhere. He turned instantly. A slim, straight-figured girl, wearing a dust-cloak and motor veil, had come out from the Savoy Court doorway and was scrutinizing every automobile in sight. Near her was a short, stout woman whose personality seemed to be strangely familiar to Medenham. He never forgot anyone, and this lady was certainly not one of his acquaintances; nevertheless, her features, her robin-like strut, her very amplitude of girth and singular rotundity of form, came definitely within the net of his retentive memory.