“Well, I am that, too. If you feel that I ought to be presented to the manageress in state, kindly announce me as George Augustus Fitzroy, Viscount Medenham, of Medenham Hall, Downshire, and 91 Cavendish Square, London.”
The hall-porter’s eyes twinkled.
“I didn’t mean that, my lord, but there’s a chauffeur, name of Dale——”
“Ah, what of him?”
“He knows all about it, my lord, and he’s hiding in a hayloft down the stable yard at this minnit, because your lordship’s father threatened to give him in charge for stealing a couple of your portmanteaux.”
“Tell me he thieved successfully and I shall fork out handsomely.”
The man grinned. He was shrewd enough to realize that, no matter what mystery lay behind all this, the aid of the police would not be requisitioned.
“I believe——” he began. Then he made off, with a cry of “Wait just a few seconds, my lord. I’ll bring Dale.”
And Dale appeared, picking bits of hay off his uniform, and striving vainly to compose his features into their customary expression of a stolid alertness that hears nothing but his master’s orders, sees nothing that does not concern his duties. He gave one sharp glance at the car, and his face grew chauffeurish, but the look of hang-dog despair returned when he met Medenham’s eyes.
“I couldn’t get away to save me life, my lord,” he grumbled. “It was a fair cop at Bristol, an’ no mistake. His lordship swooped down on me an’ Simmonds at the station, so wot could I do?”