“Dale is outside, in the car, my lord,” he said.
“In the car!” That meant the bursting of a meteor in a blue sky.
Sure enough, there stood the Mercury, dusty and panting, but seemingly gathering breath for another mighty effort if necessary.
“Come in!” shouted Medenham, on whom the first strong shadow of impending disaster had fallen as soon as he heard those ill-omened words “in the car.”
Dale scrambled to the pavement and walked stiffly up the steps, being weary after an almost unbroken run of one hundred and eighty miles. He nodded to the Mercury, and the footman rang for a pageboy to mount guard. Medenham led the way into a small anteroom and switched on the light.
“Now,” he said.
“Mr. Vanrenen kem to Chester last night in Simmond’s car, my lord. This mornin’ he sent for me an’ sez ‘who are you?’ ‘The chauffeur, sir,’ sez I. ‘Whose chauffeur?’ sez he. ‘Yours for the time,’ sez I, bein’ sort of ready for him. ‘Well, you can get,’ sez he. ‘Get what?’ sez I. ‘Get out,’ sez he. Of course, my lord, I knew well enough what he meant, but I wanted to have it straight, an’ I got it.”
Dale’s style of speech was elliptical, though he might have been surprised if told so. For once, Medenham wished he was a loquacious man.
“Was nothing else said?” he asked. “No message from—anyone? No reason given? What brought Simmonds to Chester?”
“Mr. Vanrenen picked him up in Bristol at 4 a.m. yesterday, my lord. Simmonds made out that that there Frenchman, Monsieur Marinny” (Dale prided himself on a smattering of French), “had pitched a fine ole tale about you. In fact, the bearings got so hot at Symon’s Yat that Simmonds chucked his job till Mr. Vanrenen sort of apologized.”