Going downstairs, I gave instructions to this effect, and while my belongings were being placed in the car routed out a couple of Northcote's best coats—one for Billy and one for myself.
"How's the car going, Simpson?" I asked, as the chauffeur, having secured my luggage, opened the door with a respectful salute.
"Very sweetly, sir," was his comforting reply. "I ran through 'er last night, and I don't think you'll have no trouble. The petrol's in at the back, sir."
"Mr. Logan's steering her," I said. "I've hurt my arm."
Billy, who had climbed into the driving-seat, made a brief inspection of the levers, asked one or two questions, and then, starting on the switch and sliding in his clutch, set her moving gently down the street.
"Thank goodness we're off," I said, with a little sigh of relief. "I'm just about fed up with Park Lane, Billy."
He smiled, and, cutting neatly across the bows of an on-rushing motor-bus, swept us away down Knightsbridge before the indignant driver of the latter could recall a single adequate word.
"This is the wrong way, isn't it?" he inquired. "What's the programme?"
"I must send a wire to Maurice first," I said; "then we must pick up some traps for you. What about Harrod's?"
"Oh, Harrod's will do," said Billy. "I'm not proud."