“I will interview the porter,” said Willoughby (the Hicksons live in a flat), and he disappeared, to return in a few minutes with something of the air of a conspirator.
“Get your coat on,” he said curtly.
“Have you a taxi?”
“No, I have a car. Get your coat on, and be quick about it.”
“A car?” I said. “What car? Whose car?”
Willoughby turned upon me. “If you prefer to walk, you can,” he said; “if not, get your coat on, as I say, and don’t ask stupid questions.”
I did not prefer to walk—would that I had!—but proceeded to bid my host and hostess Good-night. Even as I was doing so the porter came to the door.
“Hurry up, Sir,” he called to Willoughby in a stage whisper. “He can’t wait; he’s late already.”
As we followed him into the hall the porter went on whispering to Willoughby.
“Friend of mine. Always do me a turn. Going right to your square.” He continued to nod his head confidentially.