They left the avenue in a splutter of wet gravel. The gate still stood open. They wheeled furiously into the side road and regained the chaussée. As yet there was no sign of pursuit. The car rocked dangerously over the broken pavé, so Robin, after a glance behind, steadied her down to an easier pace. Mary, who looked very pale and ill, was lying back on the back seat with her eyes closed.
They ran easily into Rotterdam as, with a terrific jangle of tunes played jerkily on the chimes, the clocks were striking two. Robin slowed down as they approached the centre of the city.
“Where are you staying, Mary?” he asked.
He had to repeat the question several times before she gave him the address. Then he found himself in a quandary. He was in a strange town and did not know a word of the language so as to be able to ask the way. However, he solved the difficulty without great trouble. He beckoned to a newspaper boy on the square outside the Bourse and, holding up a two-gulden piece, indicated by signs that he desired him as a guide. The boy comprehended readily enough and, springing on the footboard of the car, brought them safely to the hotel.
Robin left Mary and the car in charge of the boy and went to the office and asked to see the manager. He had decided upon the story he must tell.
“Miss Trevert,” he said, when the manager, a blond and suave Swiss, had presented himself, “has been to the dentist and has been rather upset by the gas. Would you get one of the maids to help her up to her room and in the meantime telephone for a doctor. If there is an English doctor in Rotterdam, I should prefer to have him!”
The manager clicked in sympathy. He despatched a lady typist and a chambermaid to help Mary out of the car.
“For a doctor,” he said, “it ees fortunate. We ’ave an English doctor staying in ze hotel now—a sheep’s doctor. He is in ze lounge. Eef you come, hein?”
The “sheep’s doctor” proved to be a doctor off one of the big liners, a clean-shaven, red-faced, hearty sort of person who readily volunteered his services. As Robin was about to follow him into the lift, the manager stopped him.
“Zere was a shentleman call to see Mees Trevert,” he said, “two or three time ’e been ’ere ... a Sherman shentleman. ’E leave ’er a note ... will you take it?”