“Yes, sir,” said the taxi-man.
“By Jove, I haven’t much time,” ejaculated the officer “and there are some things I want to get before I go back across the Channel. And I shall have to see the Railway Transport Officer about my pass.”
“That’s all right, sir,” said the taxi-man, “I have your papers here”; he handed Desmond a couple of slips of paper which he took from his coat-pocket; “those will take you back to France all right, I think you’ll find!”
Desmond looked at the papers: they were quite in order and correctly filled up with his name, rank and regiment, and date.
The taxi-man cut short any further question by saying:
“If you’ll get into the cab again, sir, I’ll drive you where you want to go, and then wait while you have your dinner and take you to the station. By the way, your dinner’s ordered too!”
“But who the devil are you?” asked Desmond in amazement.
“On special service, the same as you, sir!” said the man with a grin and Desmond understood.
Really, the Chief was extremely thorough.
They went to the stores in the Haymarket, to Fortnum and Mason’s, and lastly, to a small, grubby shop at the back of Mayfair where Desmond and his brother had bought their cigarettes for years past. Desmond purchased a hundred of their favored brand, the Dionysus, as a reserve for his journey back to France, and stood chatting over old times with the fat, oily-faced Greek manager as the latter tied up his cigarettes into a clean white paper parcel, neatly sealed up with red sealing wax.