A sudden thought struck McTaggart. As the barman vanished into the house, he turned back into the yard, with a quick glance at the powerful car.
"Look here..." he addressed the driver. "Could you give me a lift to the meeting?" He felt in his pocket and drew out a sovereign—"I'd make it well worth your while."
The man stared at him, surprised.
"D'you know Mr. Llewellyn, sir?"
McTaggart smiled.
"I'm afraid not. But I've got to get at once to Cluar—and I can't find any other conveyance." He saw the chauffeur's greedy eyes fixed on his hand, and lowering his voice:
"If you can take me there, now," he added, "wait a few minutes and get me back to the station, it's ... five pounds in your pocket."
The man gave a little gasp. McTaggart went on steadily. "I've got to deliver a certain message"—(it seemed the best excuse on the moment)—"then catch the London train (with Jill"—he said to himself—"but that can come later.")
"Mr. Llewellyn's gone to town"—the chauffeur was thinking aloud—"I must get this petrol first..." he glanced back over his shoulder nervously at the barman, who reappeared dragging two tins from under the low stone archway.
"I daren't take you in here, sir," he stooped down as he spoke, pretending to examine a tyre, "but if you'd go across the fields, I'd pick you up at the cross roads."