Smiles wreathed Baltazar’s face of annoyance, and he exchanged a quick glance with Marcelle. “What railway station?”
“Waterloo.”
“I thought he had taken his kit with him in the car.”
“He explained, sir, when he called me into the hall before he left, that he couldn’t garage the car at Waterloo station.”
“I see,” said Baltazar.
“Therefore I am to seek it in his bedroom and convey it by taxi to Waterloo.”
Baltazar nodded approvingly, and the humorous light appeared in his eyes which Quong Ho could never interpret.
“It’s very lucky you’ve told me, Quong Ho. I want particularly to say a word or two to Godfrey before he leaves London. I’ll take his bag. You get on with the work. Perhaps you’ll send somebody out for a taxi.”
“I’ll fetch one myself,” said Quong Ho, and bowing as usual politely to Marcelle, left the room.
Baltazar clutched her arms with both hands and lifted her from her seat and, laughing exultantly, kissed her a hearty, unintelligible kiss—the first for twenty years—leaving her utterly bewildered.