Smith bounded out into the road, and stood, a weird silhouette, with upraised arms, fully in its course!
The brakes were applied hurriedly. It was a big limousine, and its driver swerved perilously in avoiding Smith and nearly ran into me. But, the breathless moment past, the car was pulled up, head on to the railings; and a man in evening clothes was demanding excitedly what had happened. Smith, a hatless, disheveled figure, stepped up to the door.
“My name is Nayland Smith,” he said rapidly—“Burmese Commissioner.” He snatched a letter from his pocket and thrust it into the hands of the bewildered man. “Read that. It is signed by another Commissioner—the Commissioner of Police.”
With amazement written all over him, the other obeyed.
“You see,” continued my friend, tersely—“it is carte blanche. I wish to commandeer your car, sir, on a matter of life and death!”.
The other returned the letter.
“Allow me to offer it!” he said, descending. “My man will take your orders. I can finish my journey by cab. I am—”
But Smith did not wait to learn whom he might be.
“Quick!” he cried to the stupefied chauffeur—“You passed a car a minute ago—yonder. Can you overtake it?”
“I can try, sir, if I don’t lose her track.”