I followed him, grabbing the handle, and slamming it behind me. As luck would have it, there was a lock outside; and while Bruce snatched up his hat and fumbled with the front door, I turned the key with a savage force that broke it off short in my hand. Then, like two drunken men, we fell rather than staggered out into the main hall.
Fortunately, there was no one about. Panting and exhausted, we leaned against the foot of the lift, while Bruce, by turning up his collar and brushing his coat with one hand, made a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of respectability.
We were interrupted by the crunch of footsteps on the drive outside.
"Look out," I whispered hastily; "here's someone coming."
Bruce straightened himself just as a burly porter in uniform swung in through the doorway. He evidently recognized us as friends of Cynthia, for he saluted with a friendly but respectful smile.
"Good-day, gen'lemen," he remarked. "I'm afraid Miss West ain't in town. Gone to Reigate, so I understand. P'rhaps you've seen the parlourmaid?"
I nodded my head.
"Yes," I said; "we've seen the parlourmaid. Could you get us a cab?"
"Certainly, sir; taxi, sir?"
"It doesn't matter," interrupted Bruce in a dazed voice, "as long as there are no women in it."