“Does she?” said Micky.
He was dead beat himself; he looked round vacantly.
“I wired Driver––I thought he’d be here....”
“Here, sir,” said a voice at his elbow, and there was Driver, stolid and impenetrable as ever.
Micky was unfeignedly glad to see the little man; for almost the first time in his life he realised that sometimes dullness and short-sightedness are a blessing in disguise. Apparently to Driver there was nothing odd in this mad rush over to Paris; his expressionless eyes saw the untidiness of his master’ toilet without changing.
“I’ve brought the car, sir,” he said.
“Good man; get me a taxi, then. You must take the car down to your rooms,” Micky said to June. “No, don’t argue; I insist–––”
He put the two girls into the car; he did not look at Esther, though he squeezed June’s hand when he said good-bye.
“Let me know if you get back all right; I shall see you soon.”