Somehow or other it was exactly right—just the name I should have chosen out of all others if providence had had the happy inspiration to consult me in the matter.
Repeating it aloud to myself with a curious sense of satisfaction, I sat down on the bunk with the letter in my hand. For a moment or so the whole thing seemed almost too good to be true. In spite of the fact that I had told her to write to me if there was any way in which I could be of use, this prompt summons was about the last thing that I had really expected.
Turning to the note, I read it through a second time from start to finish. It was written on half a sheet of paper, and there was no address, and nothing to show from what part of London it had been sent off. Perhaps the messenger could have given me some information, but he had doubtless left the ship by this time, and I could hardly dash after him in my pyjamas in order to question him on the point.
What, I wondered, could the mysterious "something" be which had led her to make this sudden and apparently impulsive appointment? In her own opinion it must be a matter of urgent importance, otherwise I felt pretty certain she would not have taken such a step. Could it possibly have anything to do with my adventure in the next door dock? If that were the case, her good offices were certainly a trifle belated, though it warmed my heart to think that she might be feeling anxious on my account.
Anyhow, above everything else there emerged the one radiant fact that within a few hours I should be seeing her and talking to her again. In view of that, all other matters seemed ridiculously unimportant, and it was in a very cheerful mood that I jumped up from my bunk and set about the job of putting on some clothes.
The morning dragged horribly, as mornings have a way of doing when there is a particularly interesting afternoon ahead of them. I filled out some of the time by writing to Bascomb, telling him that I was coming down with a friend the next day to inspect my new property, and that he had better arrange to have some food ready for us. I felt no little curiosity about my uncle's queer retainer. If he were really straight, as Mr. Drayton believed, he might certainly prove a most useful ally. Up to the present, however, I was inclined to reserve judgment on the point. My recent experiences did not encourage a hasty confidence in anybody.
By half-past twelve I was so tired of hanging about that I decided to go ashore. I could lunch somewhere in town, which would be more amusing than having a solitary meal in the saloon, and there would just be comfortable time afterwards to hunt up a car for the following day's trip.
I took the train to Charing Cross, and getting out there, strolled leisurely along through the busy streets until I came to Piccadilly. I knew nothing about West End restaurants, but with such a magnificent array to choose from I felt that I could not go very far wrong. After inspecting the outside of one or two, I eventually decided on Hatchett's. It was fairly close to Dover Street, and there was a big motor establishment just opposite, which would doubtless be able to supply me with what I wanted.
I lunched handsomely, spending at least three-quarters of an hour over the operation; and then, in that tranquil frame of mind which follows such pleasant extravagance, I sauntered across the road to the garage. I was received languidly by a young man with pink socks and beautifully brushed hair. Having listened to my requirements with a bored air, he led the way to the back of the premises, where he waved his hand towards a smart and powerful-looking Napier.
"Not a bad bus," he observed wearily. "She'll get you there and back all right."