He produced silver in generous quantities, to which the doorkeeper succumbed.
Miss Esme had a flat in Maida Vale, whither Clementine Rendall proceeded with all dispatch.
In the taxi he reflected that he had set himself a foolish and a hopeless task. Even supposing he succeeded in buying off Miss Esme, nothing would have been achieved. To postpone a crisis is not to avert it. Accordingly he thrust his head from the window and addressed the driver:
“Look here—I don’t want to go to Maida Vale. Drive me to Whatshisname Mansions—one of the turnings off Baker Street. I’ll rap on the glass to show you.” And as he subsided on the cushions again: “Heaven knows what I shall do when I get there.”
He found a porter, who directed him to Wynne’s flat, and though assailed by many doubts, he beat a cheerful tattoo upon the knocker.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, when Eve opened the door.
“Can you do with a visitor?”
Without waiting for the answer he kissed her very cordially, and putting a friendly arm round her shoulders carried her off to the sitting-room.
“As you never come and see me I came to see you,” he announced. “Well, how’s things?”
“Oh, they are all right.”