Mercia nodded her head gravely. Ever since Gordon's revelations she had been curiously silent.
"That's to say, if there's anyone in the house," I went on, "It's more than likely that both the women have cleared out by now, and Heaven knows what's happened to Milford."
"Well, we shall soon see," remarked Billy consolingly. "In any case, you can ring up Harrod's and tell them to send some food along. That's the best of being a millionaire."
Mercia laid her hand on my sleeve. "I must let the Tregattocks know I am safe," she said. "They will be anxious about me. You see, I have been away ever since breakfast."
"Better send them a wire," I suggested, "saying that you'll be back by ten. We could ring them up, of course, only it's rather an impossible situation to explain over the telephone."
Gliding round the corner of Piccadilly and Park Lane, the big car swept forward for a hundred yards, and then drew up noiselessly outside Lammersfield House. By now, the fact that I was for the moment the most notorious person in England had gone clean out of my head. This lapse of memory nearly led to a regrettable incident, for as I jumped out to hold the door open for Mercia, a young man in a blue suit, who was standing on the pavement, made a sudden dash towards us. With a warning cry to Billy, I whipped back my fist ready to strike, and the stranger checked himself abruptly just out of distance.
"I say, I'm—I'm awfully sorry," he stammered. "I bey your pardon, Mr. Burton. The fact is"—here he began to feel in his pocket—"I am representing the Daily Wire. 'Fraid I gave you a bit of a surprise."
"It was nothing," I said, "to the surprise I nearly gave you."
"If you could spare me a few minutes—" he began eagerly.
"Look here," I said, "I'm busy now—I've got some friends with me. Come back in half an hour, and we'll have a chat."