"Bless your heart," he shouted, "keep her at it."
"You bet," came the response.
"Gad, she can move. You must have pretty urgent business to push her along like this."
"Want to buy some collars as a matter of fact," said the young man.
"No point wasting time on a job of that kind."
CHAPTER 7.
THE NIGHT OF THE 27TH.
At the flat in Albemarle Street Anthony Barraclough sat alone devouring a grilled steak. He was reticent of speech and every now and then he shot a glance at the clock. In the golden shadows beyond the rays of the table lamp, Doran, his servant, stood in silent attention to his master's wants.
Doran was a person of understanding and one of the few people in the world who shared a measure of Barraclough's confidence. A late corporal of the Black Watch, he had reverted to act as Barraclough's batman throughout the major portion of the war. Rather a curious mixture was Doran. He had a light hand for an omelette and a heavy fist in a mix up, a sense of humour in adversity and a seriousness in ordinary affairs of daily life, a shrewd observer, a flawless servant and a staunch ally. Very little got past Frederic Doran.
Barraclough shook his head at a bundle of cheese straws and lit a cigarette.
"Get those things for me?" he asked.